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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662369">it's only forever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab'>lady_mab</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Labyrinth Fusion, M/M, Multi, Other Characters Not Mentioned in The Tags, see if you can spot elias</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:19:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The castle at the center of the labyrinth,” Jon breathes, recalling again the words from one of the past conversations with Martin. “He’s there.” </p><p>“Turn back, Jonathan,” the Goblin King says, and Jon is surprised to hear a slight edge of desperation in the tone. “Turn back before it’s too late.” </p><p>“I can’t,” Jon answers with the same tone. “You know that I can’t.” </p><p>The Goblin King’s grin is gone completely, and he regards Jon with a degree of pity before that melts into resignation.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraciouslyCatastrophic/gifts">GraciouslyCatastrophic</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's only forever<br/>It's not long at all<br/>They're lost and they're lonely<br/>That's underground, underground<br/>- David Bowie's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JPRh537QyVo&amp;ab_channel=Allu">"Underground"</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon leans against the doorway, watching Martin flip between notebook and paper and computer document. “You are allowed to take a break, you know.” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Martin says without looking up. “But I have a deadline—” </p>
<p>“How much longer are you going to use that as an excuse?” </p>
<p>“Just until after the deadline.” </p>
<p>Jon sighs and combs his hands through his hair, tired — oh so very tired — of this non-argument that has been going on for… a week? Two weeks? He’s honestly lost count. “You are going to work yourself to the bone, and for what? A contract that you’ve been complaining about since day one?” </p>
<p>Martin looks up sharply, the frown already etched in place on his wan face. Jon aches to see it, because he looks <em>so</em> exhausted. “I need to get this done,” he replies flatly. </p>
<p>“Martin, love, it’s almost eleven. Come to bed.” </p>
<p>Martin waves him off and that motion makes the anger flare back to life in Jon’s chest. “In a bit, I’m so close—” </p>
<p>“You’re not!” </p>
<p>“It’s just a small case of writer’s block.” </p>
<p>Jon doesn’t even bother pretending to disguise his eye-roll for some softer sort of reaction. “Staring at notes is not going to help you solve that.” </p>
<p>“How would you know?” Martin counters, nudging his glasses up his nose with a knuckle. “When have you done anything creative in your life?” </p>
<p>It’s a low blow, and guilt flickers across Martin’s expression as soon as the words have left his mouth. </p>
<p>Jon would love to do something creative, if he had the time or the inclination. But he doesn’t, and in the long run, fiction never holds his attention long enough for it to be of any use. “This isn’t about my line of work.” </p>
<p>“You hate it—” </p>
<p>“—As much as you hate your current project.” </p>
<p>Martin frowns, because he can’t argue with that, because work is work for him. </p>
<p>But Jon, who exists in a world of spreadsheets and numbers and revenue management, thinks that he has the market cornered on shitty jobs and that sitting around and writing all day couldn’t be <em>that</em> bad, even when stuck in a ‘writer’s block’. </p>
<p>He crosses fully into Martin’s office, which isn’t exactly off-limits to him, but he knows Martin is precious about the small space that is his own. When he’s in here, he’s in work mode. </p>
<p>The problem being, that he’s been in here more often than not as of late, and ‘work mode’ is overwhelming ‘have a life’ mode. </p>
<p>Jon slips his arms around Martin’s waist, in the vain hope that he can coax the other man out of the office. It doesn’t matter what the end destination is at this point — he just wants Martin out of ‘work mode’. “C’mon.” </p>
<p>“You know,” Martin says, and Jon tenses when he can hear the tone of argument lacing the words. “If you just wouldn’t mind listening to me talk out my process, then maybe this wouldn’t be so bad all the time.” </p>
<p>There’s a beat, then Jon steps away. “So you’re trying to make this my fault?” </p>
<p>“No,” Martin hurries to amend, but his expression doesn’t change. “No, I’m not.” </p>
<p>“It would just be better if you had someone who understood what you were trying to write.” </p>
<p>Martin doesn’t respond. But his fingers fall still over his papers, and he fusses with his wireless mouse. The red light flares to life as he spins it around in his hand, before dulling. “I would like to talk to you about my projects, but I know you don’t like listening to them.” </p>
<p>Jon bites the inside of his cheek. He’s tried, on several occasions, but his brain has a hard time wrapping around some of the more fantastical elements. He could suggest acting as a rubber duck: so long as Martin didn’t expect a useful answer, Martin could talk <em>at</em> Jon as often as he wanted. Jon would like that, because at least he would feel involved even if he was just sitting in the same room. </p>
<p>But Martin thrives off the conversation, and Jon is tired and feeling a little petty, so he says, “Maybe you should just ask the Goblin King.” </p>
<p>Martin gives him a sharp look, uncertain if Jon is teasing him or not. “Now you’re just taking the piss.” </p>
<p>Jon tosses his hands up in a helpless gesture. “What, isn’t that how it goes in your novel? <em>Oh, Mister Goblin King!</em>” </p>
<p>“Jon—” </p>
<p>“<em>I implore you—</em>” This might have been funny at any other moment, Jon intoning dramatically the words that he only half-remembers from an earlier conversation with Martin about the character, drawing on the long-buried days of drama clubs and theater classes. </p>
<p>But now, in the middle of an argument, it sounds mocking. And perhaps, it is, a little. </p>
<p>“<em>Please, take this man out of my sights!</em>” Jon makes a vague, half-hearted sort of wave of his arms. </p>
<p>Martin’s glare could, if focused on the other side of a magnifying glass, burn spiders to a crisp. He breathes in deep, lips pressed together so that his nostrils flare in frustration. His jaw works over a response before his shoulders slump and he shakes his head. </p>
<p>Without saying anything, he pushes past Jon and storms out of the office — leaving Jon feeling unmoored, uncertain, and like an utter ass, in the middle of a sea of papers and post-its.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Jon goes to make tea. </p>
<p>He had heard the bedroom door close behind Martin, honestly couldn’t blame him for leaving the conversation in such a fashion, and couldn’t make himself move until the thought <em>I should make him some tea </em>finally inched through his brain. </p>
<p>Bring in tea, biscuits, and an apology. </p>
<p>Sure, Martin was finally out of the office, probably going to go sulk in bed right now — Jon won this argument, technically speaking. But it’s a hollow victory when he’ll feel better off giving Martin his space until he can apologize. </p>
<p>The kettle only hisses and bubbles in response to his silent glare to make it go faster. </p>
<p>He does the last few dishes, the ones from the supper he took alone because Martin worked through dinner. He sweeps the kitchen floor. He glances at the grocery list, checks it against what is in the fridge, and contemplates shopping. He would like to go with Martin, but instead, he’ll take care of the chores. He’ll do them all, in the hopes that it will help Martin forgive him. </p>
<p>Still, the kettle does not go any faster, so he’s forced to have to slow down and take his time. </p>
<p>Jon studies the tea leaves in the pot, shakes them around idly, wondering what sort of future they will leave behind on the inside of their mugs and then decides that he doesn’t much care. He studies the way that the warm kitchen light turns the ring on his finger a soft butter gold. </p>
<p>He will apologize to Martin, and then he will find ways to it… <em>better</em>. In any way he can. </p>
<p>Finally, as if waiting for this conclusion, the kettle gives a shrilly cry of completion and Jon resumes the process of making tea. </p>
<p>Once everything is steeped and served, he arranges the items on a tray and scoops it up. </p>
<p>The door to the bedroom is still closed and the room beyond is quiet, so he knocks on it gently to announce himself. “Martin?” </p>
<p>There’s no immediate response, but the light slips out from beneath the door across his socked toes. There is the extreme possibility that, as soon as he sat down in bed, Martin’s body realized how exhausted it was. And as loath as Jon is with the idea of leaving the argument simmering until morning, he also doesn’t want to disturb Martin if he is finally getting some much needed sleep. </p>
<p>So he eases the door open and peeks inside. </p>
<p>The room is, oddly, empty. So Jon pushes the door open further with his shoulder, balancing the tray against his hip as he looks around. </p>
<p>How unlike Martin to leave the light on and the door closed if he was leaving the room. </p>
<p>Jon also didn’t hear Martin move from one room to the other, but it could have been when the kettle was screaming for attention or when he was banging the dust pan into the trash bin. So he flicks the light off, because he’s not about to go to bed until he’s certain that Martin isn’t <em>as</em> mad with him, and leaves the door open as he backs into the hall. </p>
<p>He moves to down the short walkway to the study, really more of what had aspirations of being a guest bedroom when they first moved in, but quickly became a study instead of wasting the money on a second set of bedroom dressings. </p>
<p>The door is cracked open, which means at least that Martin isn’t completely cutting him out. A shadow moves through the light spilling out into the hall, and Jon breathes a sigh of relief as he nudges this door open. </p>
<p>Martin’s name dies on his lips when his gaze focuses on the man standing at the desk. </p>
<p>The stranger is tall. Not as tall as Martin, but he holds himself with a ridiculously regal bearing — even as he leans with one hip against Martin’s desk and thumbs through the notes left out. </p>
<p>Notes that not even Jon has read, because Martin is incredibly sensitive about his plotting process. </p>
<p>The tea tray tumbles out of Jon’s hands and clatters to the floor in a cascade of scalding water, crumbling cookies, and chipped porcelain. </p>
<p>This is what makes the man look up, and his eyes, when they settle on Jon’s, are black and cruel. </p>
<p>There’s no surprise, no recognition, no anything but a clever, wicked twist of lips that is an expression Jon has seen at home on bullies before. At men who take things simply because they can. A dare to try and fight back. </p>
<p>And somehow, despite his brain screaming at how illogical this <em>actually is</em>, Jon knows without a doubt who this man is. </p>
<p>“You’re him, aren’t you?” he asks, and hates the way his voice trembles and hates the way the grin broadens. “You’re the Goblin King.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The man sketches a mocking bow where he stands, his long dark hair falling over his shoulders in pin-straight sheets with the motion. “At your service, Jonathan Blackwood-Sims.” </p>
<p>Jon prickles at the tone, at the words. At the fact that this stranger knows who he is and has the gall to act at home in Martin’s study. “Where is Martin?” he asks, hoping to sound more confident than he feels. </p>
<p>“Safe,” the Goblin King replies, and lifts an eyebrow in a mocking way. </p>
<p>Despite himself, Jon scoffs. Despite himself, he can’t bring himself to take another step into the office, to reclaim this space, to try and <em>do something</em>. </p>
<p>This time, the Goblin King’s other eyebrow lifts so they both arch towards his hairline in surprise. “You think that just because he is not <em>here</em> that he is not safe?” </p>
<p>“Forgive me,” Jon starts in a rush, in a tone that does not beg forgiveness in the slightest — in fact, asks for quite the opposite. “But you’re standing in my husband’s study after kidnapping him, and pretending like you’re a Goblin King.” </p>
<p>The man, who certainly at least looks the part with his roguish grin, his kohl-lined eyes, and his immaculate dress, affects a slight pout of disappointment. “You just said it yourself: I am the Goblin King. There is no pretend to it.” </p>
<p>Jon opens his mouth to snap back about the impracticalities of it all when the man holds up a finger, indicating that he was not done. </p>
<p>“And seeing as how you are unable to… <em>appreciate</em> Martin, I have taken him away to my kingdom, where he will be loved and safe.” </p>
<p>This is utterly ridiculous. </p>
<p>There is no way this can be happening. </p>
<p>He must be seeing things, that is the only explanation. He fell while making the tea and hit his head on the counter and he’s having some elaborate hallucination because his brain is still caught up on that stupid argument where he asked the Goblin King to come and take Martin away. </p>
<p>But that doesn’t stop his hands from shaking, and it doesn’t stop the waver in his voice when he forces out the word, “Please.” </p>
<p>The Goblin King waits to hear the rest of the request.</p>
<p>Jon takes a steadying breath, focuses instead on the anger instead of the helplessness, focuses on the frustration and the absolute <em>no way in fucking hell</em> this could actually be happening. “I would like Martin back, if it’s all the same.”</p>
<p>Somehow, this response amuses the Goblin King, and his mouth splits into a sharp smile. “What’s done is done!” </p>
<p>“No, it’s not!” </p>
<p>The Goblin King laughs and produces, from beneath one diaphanous sleeve, a crystal ball. “I have a gift for you, Jonathan.” </p>
<p>“What, a bauble in place of a husband? You have a strange sense of economy.” Finally, <em>finally</em>, Jon steps over the mess of the tea tray and into the room. His hands clench into fists and he ponders the merits of simply punching what can only be an illusion. </p>
<p>“It is a <em>gift</em>,” the stranger begins, and twirls the thing across his fingers — from his flat palm across the back of his hand and round over the wrist to come to a rest in the opposite hand. “But I will not give it to men who disrespect their partners.” </p>
<p>“Then keep it, and unless you want additional advice on where to shove it, give me back Martin.” </p>
<p>The Goblin King extends his hand with a flourish, the crystal ball coming to a rest on the tops of his fingers as he gives another mocking half-bow. “It is a chance, Jonathan, at the life you want. One away from all of this. One that cherishes you, like this one never will.” </p>
<p>Despite himself, Jon starts to reach for the thing. “Will Martin be there?” he asks. </p>
<p>There’s another pout, and Jon realizes that the Goblin King is probably barely older than he is. So where does <em>he</em> get off acting all high and mighty? “I told you, Martin will be with me, because you don’t seem to want to cherish him unless it appeases your guilt.” </p>
<p>Jon’s hand snaps out, and he smacks the crystal from the Goblin King’s fingers. But as soon as his palm connects with the ball, the image shifts and twists and writhes — smooth, clear crystal darkening to pitch and the cool glass prickling his skin with eight spindly legs. </p>
<p>He helps, drawing back as if burned, and the giant spiders falls to the floor in a shower of sprinkling black dust. </p>
<p>The Goblin King’s laughter echoes through the room, and he gives a snap of a gloved hand and the scene around them changes. </p>
<p>When Jon looks up, they’re standing on top of a hill and a hot, dry breeze tugs at the strands of their hair as it whips between them. A steep slope leads down to a wall, and beyond the wall… </p>
<p>“The castle at the center of the labyrinth,” Jon breathes, recalling again the words from one of the past conversations with Martin. “He’s there.” </p>
<p>“Turn back, Jonathan,” the Goblin King says, and Jon is surprised to hear a slight edge of desperation in the tone. “Turn back before it’s too late.” </p>
<p>“I can’t,” Jon answers with the same tone. “You know that I can’t.” </p>
<p>The Goblin King’s grin is gone completely, and he regards Jon with a degree of pity before that melts into resignation. </p>
<p>Then the edge is back, and his lips twist to form that sharp expression he wore previously, and he extends a hand to produce an elaborate clock. “Thirteen days. Is that enough for you?” </p>
<p>Jon studies the hill, then the labyrinth. “You’re giving me a chance?” </p>
<p>“I am nothing if not generous.” </p>
<p>“If you were generous, you would return Martin to me.” </p>
<p>“You keep saying that, as if you know what he wants.” The Goblin King gestures, and the hands of the clock whirl and wheel before landing pointing directly upright. The number thirteen, squeezed into the face of the clock, looks jagged and dangerous. Far more than a number has any right to be. </p>
<p>Jon doesn’t know how to respond, because he thought he knew, but perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps there is some other, deeper mistake lying beneath the argument that they’ve worn out time and time again. </p>
<p>He runs his thumb across the band on his ring finger, and thinks about the shy smile Martin always gets when he looks at their hands joined together, and he squares his shoulders. “Even if he doesn’t think the same, then I would appreciate the courtesy of being able to hear it from his own lips. Thirteen days? Easy. I’ll solve your labyrinth by then.” </p>
<p>“I look forward to seeing you try.” This time, when the Goblin King bows, his shimmering cape catches the light just so and he vanishes in the blink of an eye. </p>
<p>Jon glares at the spot where the man once stood. </p>
<p>“Fuck you,” he says to the empty space, though it could just as easily be aimed at himself. </p>
<p>And then he turns and commences his careful trek down the slope. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin doesn’t know where he is. </p>
<p>Well, he does, but he doesn’t. </p>
<p>Because this is just an… entirely hypothetical location, right? There is <em>no way</em> that this could <em>actually</em> be the Goblin King’s castle. </p>
<p>Because that was just a thing he wrote in a book. </p>
<p>Hell, it’s not even his own IP! It’s a contract piece! </p>
<p>So that breaks it down into two equally unpleasant scenarios.</p>
<p>Scenario the first: This is an elaborate prank by his publicist and perhaps Jon was in on it and that’s why he was so tetchy, man never could tell a lie without giving away the entire game so he had to put on some kind of front. And people from the owners of the IP snuck into his house (with Jon’s permission) and kidnapped him (politely) and this is a set for a huge promotional campaign, and they just want him to write it well! So why not a first hand experience of the Goblin King’s castle at the center of the labyrinth! (There is a labyrinth outside, he’s already checked.)</p>
<p>Scenario the second: This is real, Jon wished for him to go away hard enough that it actually worked, and he doesn’t know how that makes him feel. (Beyond incredibly sad and distraught, because couldn’t they have at least talked about it before Jon banished him to what was supposed to be a fictional realm? Sure, this is probably cheaper than couple’s therapy or divorce lawyers, but really… <em>Really</em>! Things weren’t <em>that</em> bad were they?!) </p>
<p>Scenario the second, sub-point: There’s no way this can be real. </p>
<p>In the short amount of time that he has been in this lavishly appointed room, Martin scoured every inch of it for a clue — something to give away that it was just all an extremely expensive and stress-inducing prank. Insofar, there is nothing, but he’s not about to give up that quickly. </p>
<p>There is still the door, a beautifully constructed piece of wood inlaid with some kind of metal forming a delicate vine pattern around the edges and as supports. </p>
<p>So, after swallowing down his hesitation, and preparing for a jump scare and a shout of <em>SURPRISE</em>, just in case, Martin pulls open the door. </p>
<p>There is a short hallway beyond, light by cheerfully burning torches like an honest to God medieval castle, then it rounds a gentle corner and vanishes in what must be a staircase. </p>
<p>Martin looks behind him, into the room, with the wide windows open to let in the natural light. Nothing that looks like it can be used as a weapon. So, wondering about the logistics of holding an actual torch, he frees one (clumsily) from the sconce on the wall and holds it like a baseball bat. </p>
<p>He really hopes no one jumps out to yell surprise at him now, or there will be one <em>hell</em> of a medical bill to have to cover. </p>
<p>His footsteps tap merrily back at him as he descends the stairs, careful to keep the fire of the torch away form his head. The staircase splits off at one landing, which leads to several more nondescript doors, but mostly ends in a balcony overlooking what must be a hall below. </p>
<p>So Martin takes it down one more flight, ignoring the closed door to his right, and turns left into the grand hall of the castle. </p>
<p>His eyes widen at the majesty of it, and he’s impressed despite himself. “Oh, <em>woah</em>…” He cranes his head back as far as he can, squinting up at the distant vaulted roof, his feet carrying him further into the hall before he bodily collides with someone. </p>
<p>“Careful there,” the stranger says, catching onto his hand holding the torch with cool, calloused fingers. “You’ll set a person on fire with that.”</p>
<p>Martin looks, and his jaw drops at the man in front of him. </p>
<p><em>Ethereal</em>, is one word that could be used to describe him. </p>
<p><em>Downright bloody hot</em>, is, perhaps, another. </p>
<p>The stranger has long dark hair that shivers around his shoulders like a cloak of night, and his eyes, when they return to Martin’s, are equally black. But they catch the torchlight as the stranger takes it from him with a careless pluck, and the lingering traces of a dour expression quickly vanish into a warm and delighted smile. “Greetings, Martin.” </p>
<p>“You know my name,” he says thickly, brain not quite catching up with what is happening. “How—” </p>
<p>“I know a lot about you.” The stranger gives a small little flick of his wrist, making as if to plunge the torch into a bucket of water that isn’t there, and the length of wood and fire simply vanishes. “I should think you know of me, too. Or, at least, I had hoped that you do.” </p>
<p>“I…” Martin starts, because yes. He does. Despite how unrealistic it is, there is no one else that this could be. “The Goblin King.” </p>
<p>The man’s smile broadens at this, and the tips of sharpened teeth can be spied just around the curl of his lips. “That’s right.” </p>
<p>“Do you…” He shuffles in his spot, not used to talking to someone this dazzling by far. “What’s your name?” </p>
<p>This catches the man off-guard, and he regards Martin with unveiled surprise before the charm dims to something warm and pleasant and he says, “Gerry.” </p>
<p>“Gerry the Goblin King,” Martin repeats, trying out the sound. It sounds so… <em>normal</em>. “It’s very nice to meet you, I suppose.” </p>
<p>“Indeed,” Gerry says, and he takes Martin’s hand in his. </p>
<p>For one, brief, slightly delirious moment, Martin wonders if Gerry is going to kiss it like some kind of courtier straight out of a period drama. But instead, all he does is clasp it fondly between his own two hands. </p>
<p>Cue one of the most intense blushes in his life. </p>
<p>And, because Martin still isn’t too sure if this is Scenario the First or Second, he has to ask: “I would like to go home now.” </p>
<p>The geniality that had lingered around the edges of Gerry’s expression immediately freezes over, though nothing else about his polite smile changes. “This is your home now,” he says, and applies a hint of pressure to Martin’s hand. It’s probably meant to be reassuring, but given the context, it feels a little threatening. “Or at least, I would like for you to think of it as such.” </p>
<p>Martin looks around at the grand hall they stand in. “It’s a <em>palace</em>.” </p>
<p>“Yes!” Gerry replies, pleased. </p>
<p>“A palace isn’t a <em>home</em>.” </p>
<p>The mildest trace of surprise mixes with confusion on Gerry’s expression as he also looks around. “It’s my home.” </p>
<p>Martin doesn’t know how to say that this place doesn’t look or feel like a home without insulting the incredibly handsome and definitely magical king of the Goblins. So instead he sighs and politely extracts his hand from Gerry’s and says, “Okay, well… I need to get to <em>my</em> home. And my husband.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to add that last part, because it feels more defensive than he means it to be. </p>
<p>It also acts as a release on the panic that had been mounting since Martin opened his eyes to find himself in this place, and the anxiety comes rushing in. “He’s probably worried about me. I just disappeared without saying anything. And right in the middle of an argument, too, shit.” Martin starts to pace in a tight line, back and forth a few paces in either direction. </p>
<p>Gerry reaches out, as if he means to stop Martin with a touch, but he hesitates before his fingers can brush the cardigan sleeve. “You do realize that he was the one who called for me to take you, don’t you?” There is an edge of defensiveness to his tone as well. “<em>Please, take this man out of my sights</em>, and all that?” </p>
<p>Martin winces, because sure, it does sound bad, but it’s also <em>not like that</em>. “It was a sarcastic hypothetical,” he explains. “You get used to them with Jon.” </p>
<p>The frown hasn’t eased from between Gerry’s brows. He pulls his hand back, and produces a crystal ball from nowhere. “Then I suppose I should show you this.” </p>
<p>Taking the offered ball, Martin squints down at it to try and figure out just what he’s meant to be seeing. </p>
<p>His own wobbly, warped reflection fades to star stuff, and in its wake an image of a dry, barren hillside resolves. And, undoubtedly grumbling and complaining about anything he can think of, Jon. Trundling down, arms occasionally pinwheeling to keep his balance, somehow in sneakers that rarely see use despite the fact that he <em>knows</em> Jon was only wearing socks when they were at home. </p>
<p>The possibility that Jon might have paused long enough to dig out his sneakers for the unknown adventure ahead is incredibly endearing, and Martin can’t help the smile that forms on his lips at the sight. </p>
<p>Then, realization clicks, and he looks up sharply at the Goblin King — who is studying an invisible nick in one of the stone pillars lining the hall. “You brought him here.” </p>
<p>“In a manner of speaking,” Gerry says, scratching the stone with a nail. “He is approaching the outer walls of the labyrinth as we speak.” </p>
<p>“Why?” </p>
<p>“Why not?” Gerry casts him a quick glance out of the corner of surprisingly long-lashed eyes. “It would be unfair of me to not give him a chance, if he is serious.” </p>
<p>Martin stares, unable to muster a response. The ridiculously silly thing is that Jon is <em>incredibly </em>serious, about everything. But especially about Martin. “Why did you come?” he asks instead, the words leaving him in a rush — on a sigh. </p>
<p>“I was not about to just abandon a request,” Gerry starts, and there’s an amused tilt to his lips, but Martin shakes his head. </p>
<p>“Why now? Why not… I don’t know, when I wished it a million times before — why not before I met Jon, when I would have <em>relished</em> to be here with you.” He makes an absent, half-hearted gesture to the room at large. “To younger me, this would have been a <em>dream</em>.” </p>
<p>The Goblin King stares at him, head tilted to the side, considering. “What changed, between then and now?” he asks softly. </p>
<p>“I met someone. I fell in love. And yeah, the world still sucks, and sometimes we get into fights, but he’s always been there.” Martin offers back the crystal ball, and the image of Jon, head bent and shoulders hunched and hands clenched into determined fists, vanishes as it leaves his hand. “And he always will be.” </p>
<p>There is no easily discernable expression on the Goblin King’s face now, and Martin wonders how a man he has never seen before could be at once so familiar and so incredibly strange. “Regardless,” he finally says, and still there is no shift in emotion. “This is your home now. And I would ask that you start to think of it as such.” </p>
<p>He lifts a hand and Martin hates himself for flinching back. Any tiny <em>hint</em> at emotion is immediately locked away behind an iron key, and the Goblin King gestures to somewhere behind Martin. “Show our new guest around, will you?” he asks to the person who approaches from behind. “Wherever he wishes to go. I intent to prove that I can be a generous host.” </p>
<p>The Goblin King turns on his heel before Martin can try and apologize, and it is like there is an invisible wall that he steps behind with the movement. </p>
<p>After a pause, a woman says, “He tends to do that. Don’t worry, he’s not mad at you.” </p>
<p>Martin turns to find a woman close to his age standing there politely, hands shoved into pockets of a denim jacket that looks out of place in this castle, but right at home across her shoulders. “Oh,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. </p>
<p>The woman studies him, and it’s an entirely different feeling than the way that Gerry had just studied him. When she smiles, it’s warm and polite, but also sort of detached in a way that reminds Martin of the nurses at the homes he toured for his mother. “Welcome to the castle at the center of the labyrinth,” she announces, and sketches a small, jaunty bow. “I’m Georgie.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes Jon far too long to finally reach the outer wall. For a good while, it feels like there is an optical illusion in place and the distance never changes, or something like that Monty Python skit with the knight running at the castle and he gets closer then further then close, but never close enough, until <span class="pwa-mark decorator">bam</span>: There it is. </p>
<p>It’s tall, which is the first ridiculous thought to cross through his head. About twice his height, covered in brittle vines and other vegetation that is dead or dying. </p>
<p>“Needs a gardener,” Jon grumbles, running a hand over one of the vines and giving it an experimental tug. He <em>knows</em> that he doesn’t have the upper body strength (or lower body strength, to be perfectly honest) needed for scaling the wall, but it’s still a disappointment when the vine comes loose and loops down like a cold spaghetti noodle. </p>
<p>He continues to grumble and swear as he kicks the stone wall for good measure, only resulting in almost stubbing his toe, and moves on to try and find an entrance. </p>
<p>It takes another unknowable time and distance before he hears activity around a cluster of shrubs. Slowing to a cautious pace, Jon peers over the edge of one spindly brush to find a woman lashing out angrily at… a worm? </p>
<p>Jon rubs his eyes, cleans off his glasses, and puts them back on, only to see the woman stab at a distressingly large silvery fleshy thing. </p>
<p>She kicks the carcass aside with little aplomb and moves on, stalking in Jon’s direction with her knife clutched in one hand. </p>
<p>It’s not until she halves the distance between them that Jon even realizes that she’s blind — eyes a milky color, scarred corneas and flesh making it look like a hack medical job than anything else. </p>
<p>He wracks his brain for the best way to approach her as she approaches him. He takes a step back, hoping that she won’t be able to lash out if he’s not so close, and his foot commits a sin of clichés and lands on one of the dry twigs that the wall seems to shed in perpetuity. </p>
<p>The woman stops on a dime, and Jon holds up his hands defensively, apology already on the tip of his tongue, when she throws the knife with distressing accuracy. </p>
<p>With a yelp, Jon pitches to the side to avoid having his shoulder or neck or whatever get skewered by the blade. “Peace!” he shouts, scrambling further out of the way — not that a bush between them will do any good. “I didn’t mean to startle you!” </p>
<p>“Oh,” the woman says. “I missed.” She stomps forward several steps, stopping shy of colliding with the wall, and begins to pat the dirt for her missing blade. “Hold on, let me try again.” </p>
<p>“What? No!” </p>
<p>“Then what else are you here for, if it’s not as target practice?” She rises back to her feet, brushing one hand then the other on her pants to free them of dirt before settling in with the blade at an easy grip. “The Goblin King loves to send emissaries to try and get me to do things for him, but they all end up the same.” </p>
<p>Jon doesn’t need to ask <em>like what</em>, because he saw what she did to that worm and what she was extremely ready to do to him. “I need to get into the labyrinth.” </p>
<p>She makes a face, nose scrunching and lips twisting, then she gives a loud snort. “Sucks to be you.” </p>
<p>It’s Jon’s turn to make a face, though he realizes a beat later he’s glad she can’t see the way he mimics her expression. She’d probably not even hesitate to stab him out of spite. “Do you know how?” </p>
<p>“How what?” </p>
<p>“To get in.” </p>
<p>The woman considers this, and just before he thinks that she’s going to give him a decent answer, she says, “That’s what she said.” </p>
<p>Jon stares. His jaw drops a little out of pure shock. “<em>Wow</em>,” he drawls, putting as much sarcasm as he can into that one word. “Wow.” </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, were you expecting a different answer?” Before he can say that yes, he was, she shrugs and says, “Ask better questions.” </p>
<p>He bristles at her flippant attitude, and figures that it’s no wonder that she stalks around the outer wall of the labyrinth stabbing worms. No one else would want to hold a conversation with her. “I need to know how to get in there.” He points at the wall with a frustrated jab of his finger. </p>
<p>The woman stares in his direction. “If you’re pointing at something, you’re going to have to also provide additional context.” </p>
<p>The blood drains from Jon’s face as, mortified, he says, “I’m sorry, I just—” </p>
<p>She waves a hand to dismiss his apology. “Just kidding. The only thing you could be pointing at is the labyrinth. So what do you need to get in there for? It’s a dump. I mean, just look at all these better tourist destinations around here! Don’t waste your time going into the labyrinth.” </p>
<p>He takes a breath and straightens his shoulders, because this is how all of the heroes in Martin’s novels stand — upright and determined. “The Goblin King took my husband. I need to get him back.” </p>
<p>This, surprisingly, brings the woman up short. For the first time in their brief encounter, she looks caught off-guard and uneasy. She bites her lip in consideration. “Oh. I’m sorry.” There is genuine regret in her voice with those words. “But you’re not going to be able to get him back.” </p>
<p>“Yes, I will,” he replies. The more he says it, the more he’ll believe it, and that’s a magic on its own, right? (Christ, he wishes he read more of Martin’s favorite books, took notes, understood this genre better. He’s so out of his depth.) “So if you don’t mind, I need to get into the labyrinth, get Martin back, and get us both home. How do I get in?”</p>
<p>The woman seems to war with herself for a moment before losing whatever internal struggle. She stomps over to the wall (<em>does she stomp everywhere? </em>Jon wonders) and kicks at no part in particular. </p>
<p>With a rumble and a groan, it swings open as if it had been a door this entire time and Jon just didn’t know how to <em>look</em>. </p>
<p>She gives a broad, elaborate hand wave, and steps back to allow Jon to approach. </p>
<p>Slowly, carefully, Jon steps through the doorway. He half expects it to slam shut behind him, and instead is left with the hot, arid landscape at his back and the cool, damp interior of the labyrinth spread out before him. </p>
<p>He looks down to the left, then down to the right. Both paths extend as far as he can see with absolutely no twists or turns or anything that could indicate doors or arches. </p>
<p>“Cozy, innit?” the woman asks, sauntering in behind him to stand with her arms crossed over her chest. </p>
<p>“This is supposed to be a labyrinth?” </p>
<p>“You saw it on your approach, yeah?” </p>
<p>Jon nods, then adds, “I did.” </p>
<p>She waves again to indicate the flat wall before him. “Taadaa!” </p>
<p>He continues to consider either direction, wondering just what exactly the trick is. “Which way would you go?” </p>
<p>“Me?” She snorts and then shakes her head. “I wouldn’t go either way.” </p>
<p>Jon rolls his eyes and turns his back on her. “If that’s all the help you’re going to be, then goodbye. Thanks for opening the door.” </p>
<p>There’s a pause where he thinks that she leaves, but then the woman kicks at a pebble with her boot. “You know what your problem is?” </p>
<p>“I’m allergic to peanuts and I don’t like bacon in sandwiches?” Those are two things that Martin always teases him as his worst qualities, and thinking about it just makes him ache. </p>
<p>She aims another kick, but this time at his shin instead of a rock. “You take too many things for granted.”</p>
<p>Jon jumps out of the way of her foot and has to catch himself on the long, un-twisting wall of the labyrinth. “What is that supposed to mean?” </p>
<p>Her glare is withering, and Jon, half deliriously, wonders if she’s the reason the plants outside are so dead. “Even if you get to the center, you’ll never get out again.”</p>
<p>“Are you saying that because the same thing happened to you?” he snaps with no real evidence to indicate as such. </p>
<p>But then there’s the briefest flash of a snarl across her sharp features. With a final, explosive, “Bah!” of frustration, the woman spins around on her heel and stalks out of the labyrinth. </p>
<p>Now the doors swing shut, and Jon is left alone — on a path that goes straight forever in either direction in what is supposed to be a thing of misdirection and falsehoods. </p>
<p>“You take too many things for granted,” he repeats, pressing the flat of his palm to the part of the wall that had just been a door after it had not been a door. </p>
<p>He decides, in the end, that it’s not worth puzzling over and he lets his hand drop back to his side. “Well, nothing to it,” he announces to the hall at large, and begins to walk down the right hand path. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Over the next few hours, Georgie acts as a constant shadow as Martin wanders through the castle. She answers his questions to the best of her ability, pointing out interesting little bits and pieces of the architecture as they go. </p>
<p>Eventually, his own curiosity gets the better of him and he gestures to her jacket. “It seems a little out of the aesthetics of this place.” It is, in fact, denim and covered in patches and pins and looks like something Jon might have worn when he was in college. “I take it you’re not originally a resident of the Goblin King’s castle.” </p>
<p>Georgie gives him a little smile, shrugging with her hands still in the pockets so the jacket flares out like wings on a sugar glider. “No, but it’s been a bit.” </p>
<p>“How long is a bit?” </p>
<p>She shrugs again. “It gets hard to tell, the longer you stay here. Maybe a year?” Georgie wanders ahead of him a few steps, and he catches sight of two of the patches across the shoulder blades. </p>
<p><em>What the Ghost?</em> one asks, and on the opposite shoulder, <em>Ghost Hunt UK</em> and he suddenly puts it together with the name and the voice and why they had been so familiar. </p>
<p>“You’re that podcaster that went missing!” he yelps, then clamps his hands down over his mouth when she casts him an amused glance over her shoulder. “It was a huge scandal.” </p>
<p>She lifts an eyebrow and smirks. “I really hope the true crime podcasters had a field day trying to solve my mystery.” </p>
<p>“It’s one of their favorites. Whoever solves the mystery first will be famous.” Jon, of course, pretends to not be interested in them, but he listens to them with more intensity than Martin does. </p>
<p>Maybe Martin should try to get Jon into writing a crime novel… Anything has to be better than revenue management, honestly, and maybe he can channel all of that brain power into something that isn’t berating the podcast hosts they listen to. </p>
<p>“Good. One last fuck them, I guess. The unsolvable mystery of the weird ghost podcaster.” She laughs, though Martin isn’t too sure what is so funny. </p>
<p>“So you’ve been… <em>here</em>, this whole time?” He gestures vaguely to the stonework. </p>
<p>Georgie runs a hand through her hair, shaking out the curls away from her collar. “Yes,” she answers simply. </p>
<p>He thinks a bit, then says, “What happened?” </p>
<p>The amusement in her expression dims, and her gaze focuses out through one of the tall windows lining the walkway. They’re in the section that Martin has decided to start calling the split level, the one that looks out over the main hall where he had met the king himself. “Something similar to what will happen to you, I think,” she admits, her tone indicating that she is incredibly sorry for what this means. </p>
<p>Martin stops, and she turns to face him. “Did someone wish for you to be taken, too?” he asks, mouth feeling like it’s filled with cotton, like the time he had to get his wisdom teeth removed combined with waking up with an awful gin-induced hangover but worse. </p>
<p>The thought that Jon would leave him here, or wouldn’t even be able to make it and be stuck in a Sisyphean loop of lost in the labyrinth trying to find castle at the center, makes him feel weak-kneed. Both of them, stuck, because of <em>one</em> argument. One stupid little thing that neither of them really meant, couldn’t have meant, and <span class="pwa-mark decorator">bam</span>. Doomed for eternity. </p>
<p>He drops into a crouch because if he keeps trying to stand, he’s afraid he might fall over. His hands hook over the back of his neck, and scrub through the hair that is getting just too long so that it tickles his shirt collars, long enough that Jon would like to comb his fingers through it with a fond smile and a <em>let me guess, you’ll get a haircut when the manuscript is done</em>. </p>
<p>Georgie makes a soft, sad sound as she moves to crouch next to him. “I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” </p>
<p>“No, it’s… I’m…” It’s not fine, and he’s not okay. He doesn’t know which lie to give to make either of them feel better. </p>
<p>There’s a rustle, a displacement of air, and Georgie shifts at his side with a sharp intake of breath. </p>
<p>The Goblin King’s voice sends a chill down Martin’s spine. “What’s wrong?” </p>
<p>“Are you daft?” Georgie asks, the bitterness in her tone hard to miss.</p>
<p>He has the grace to not respond to that question. </p>
<p>“I’ll be okay,” Martin finally says, attempting to wave off both of their concern and only resulting in patting Georgie’s knee reassuringly. “Just mild panic. No big deal.” He’s had worse. </p>
<p>She gives his hand a gentle squeeze as she rises back to her feet. Then, after a pause, Martin watches her knees as she gives an awkward little bow. “Your Majesty.” </p>
<p>Martin remains where he is crouched as she leaves. He lifts his head, staring out at the now empty walkway that surrounds the hall, seeing only the tops of buildings and the hint of labyrinthine walls that surround the city from all angles. </p>
<p>“I apologize,” Gerry finally says, after the silence stretched on for so long Martin thought that he had left. “It’s not that I didn’t realize how much he meant to you. I just…” His breath leaves him on a sigh, and Martin cranes his head around to get a glimpse of the Goblin King as he passes one hand over his brow — as if uncertain if he wanted to rub his face or ruffle his hair. </p>
<p>“Let me guess, something along the lines of how you’ve been alone for so long you forget how human emotions work?” Martin begins the laborious task of pushing himself to his feet, still quite uncertain if his legs have stopped shaking long enough to keep him upright. </p>
<p>When he turns to face the Goblin King, Gerry once again has that expression on his face that is a very practiced <em>lack</em> of expression. “I suppose the point remains in some capacity considering that, strictly speaking, I’m not human.” There is a hint of humor there, but it doesn’t make it to his lips or his eyes. </p>
<p>“It’s not a very solid defense.” </p>
<p>Gerry studies him in silence, looking as if trying to find something, before he takes a step back and dips into an elaborate bow. “I would like to invite you to a party, Martin.”</p>
<p>Martin looks down into the empty hall. “A party.” </p>
<p>“A welcome party, I suppose you could call it. A celebration of your arrival.” </p>
<p>He suddenly understands a lot better the dry sort of laughter that seems to rest so quick to hand on Georgie’s lips. “A celebration?” </p>
<p>Gerry nods, and there is a hint of eagerness in his eyes. “I would like for you to enjoy your time here. Perhaps meeting others from my kingdom will help you feel more at ease.” </p>
<p>Honestly, the thing that will help him feel most at ease would be to have Jon here beside him. He doesn’t care about anything else beyond that. The two of them could take on the world together, because that’s what they promised each other. They could be stuck in this castle for eternity so long as there wasn’t this incredible distance between them. </p>
<p>So long as they could be together. </p>
<p>But the Goblin King has already shown that he’s not interested in that concession — that it’s about the challenge as much as it is the reward. Because this is Jon’s punishment for that slip, to fight and prove himself, or at least, that’s how Martin would write this if it were a novel. </p>
<p>He doesn’t much fancy the idea of being the prize, doomed to sit by helplessly while watching Jon’s progress. But this is a different kind of story. It’s not one that he was contracted to write. He can make the best of this situation, and perhaps, if he endears himself to the Goblin King, Jon can be given a short cut. </p>
<p>Martin squares his shoulders and gives a short nod. “Alright. Sure. A party.” </p>
<p>Gerry holds out his arm, like a proper gentleman, and well. Martin is a sap for such gestures, so he takes it, and allows himself to be lead through one step to the next and it’s like stepping through an invisible curtain. </p>
<p>One moment, they’re standing up on the balcony. Step to the side, look at it from a different angle, and suddenly, they’re at a party. </p>
<hr/>
<p>Gerry wouldn’t necessarily say that he <em>demanded</em> his subjects attend. It’s not like he’s about to throw open the doors to his castle to the rabble of the city, after all. A few representatives of his allies (or, in a few cases, political rivals that he needs to keep an eye on but would be better off not snubbed at an event like this), a few… </p>
<p>Alright, maybe that was all. </p>
<p>He is king, after all. He has allies, he has guards, and he has enemies. </p>
<p><em>Friends</em> is never something he’s had time for. </p>
<p>He wonders where Martin fits in, though perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, he will possess a new category all for himself. Jon as well, though that’s a complication he will have to figure out in twelve days’ time. </p>
<p>Martin, unfortunately, does not seem to be enjoying his time here. </p>
<p>And Gerry understands, as much as he has to act like he doesn’t, or refuses to. </p>
<p>He took the man away from his home and his husband, which honestly Gerry hadn’t counted on when responding to the summons. He’ll answer when called, but it’s not like he has a great amount of time to investigate who is being taken. </p>
<p>Normally a scorned party will have a deeper anger. Normally, the one saying the words really <em>truly </em>means it, or Gerry would be forced to show up for any goblin or gnome that got it into their head to have a petty squabble solved by the king whisking away the opposition. </p>
<p>So where do Jon and Martin fit into that? </p>
<p>From that brief expression on Martin’s face as he watched Jon in the crystal ball, it could not have been that deep for an argument. And he had seen the way Jon’s entire countenance changed the moment he noticed that Martin was missing. </p>
<p>He disrupted something he wasn’t meant to, and now he’s having to figure out how to fix it without giving anyone the advantage. </p>
<p>Not Jon, not Martin, but especially not his enemies. </p>
<p>Gerry approaches Martin, after hoping that by leaving the other man to his own devices, that the tension between his shoulders might ease. </p>
<p>Martin’s gaze jumps to his at his arrival, and while there is a lingering weariness, there is nothing defensive. “Your Majesty,” he starts, but Gerry waves it off. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Especially if you’re not enjoying the party.” </p>
<p>There’s a twitch at the corner of Martin’s mouth that might be the hint of a smirk, might just be resisting the urge to frown. “I’m sorry, after you went through the effort of planning it for me.” </p>
<p>“Is it not to your liking?”</p>
<p>“Not really one for parties, though it does sort of remind me of the launch for one of my books.” He gestures at the room before him, a cookie in one hand and a drink in the other, at the people milling around and casting furtive glances in their direction. “This sort of vibe where they can’t decide how to feel about me.” </p>
<p>“Well, it is not every day that a new human joins our ranks.” </p>
<p>Martin considers him and takes a bite of his cookie before saying, “So no one here is human?” </p>
<p>“Excepting you and Georgie.” </p>
<p>“You all <em>look</em> human.” </p>
<p>Gerry grins, showing off his teeth. “You think a man as beautiful as me could be a human?” </p>
<p>Surprisingly, Martin laughs at this — a little explosion of sound that he tries to disguise with a cough into his elbow. “You are the exception. You have the aura of the other wordly all over you.” </p>
<p>“I should hope it isn’t too distracting.” </p>
<p>“A perfect anti-hero for a novel, honestly,” Martin says and the laughter lingering at the corner of his lips is quite possibly one of the most beautiful things Gerry has seen. </p>
<p>But then the words catch up with Martin and he blushes, hiding his face behind the drink as he chugs that down. “Sorry, I don’t mean to imply that I think of you like that—” </p>
<p>“What, as an antagonist?” </p>
<p>He shakes his head. “No, an anti-hero. I don’t think you’re all that bad of a guy — King of the Goblins or no.” </p>
<p>Gerry considers this, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “What makes you say that?” he finally asks, slow and careful. </p>
<p>It’s not that he wants everyone to think of him as mean and scary. He’s not his mother, after all, who was a fearsome queen in her day. But he does still have an image to uphold. </p>
<p>Luckily, the only people nearby enough are his personal guards Julia and Trevor. And they spend a moment glaring at anyone who shows too much interest in Gerry’s conversation with Martin, so he feels comfortable with allowing this line of thought.</p>
<p>“Well, why are you doing this?” Martin cocks his head to the side, but continues without waiting for an answer. “Why any of this, why allow Jon the chance to save me?” </p>
<p>He doesn’t add, <em>if you weren’t lying about that</em>. Gerry wonders if the possibility of it being a falsehood even occurred to Martin. </p>
<p>And, to be perfectly honest, Gerry isn’t too sure himself. </p>
<p>He tried, once. He gave Georgie and Melanie a chance, because that had been a mistake as well. A woman too curious for her own good, and the girlfriend she left behind. </p>
<p>Laws put in place by the late queen, rules tied up in the magic that he uses. He can only bend them in the slightest way possible before they break, and he doesn’t know what will happen once they start to crack. </p>
<p>“I’m afraid any answer I give you, you might find unsatisfactory,” Gerry admits, forcing his hands to stay still at his sides instead of to start fidgeting. </p>
<p>“Do you know any myths from… Earth? I suppose, I don’t know where this is and I don’t really want to get into the metaphysics of it all.” Martin pauses to nudge his glasses up his nose with a knuckle, then finishes off his cookie while Gerry waits. “There is an ancient myth about two young lovers called Orpheus and Eurydice. Eurydice dies, and she winds up in the kingdom of Hades, the realm of the dead.” </p>
<p>Gerry wonders if that’s how Martin feels about this place — that it’s somewhere to go when dead. That it’s a hopeless end. </p>
<p>“And Orpheus, desperate to reunite with her, to have his true love back at his side, well he journeys in after her.” </p>
<p>He lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Into Hades?” </p>
<p>Martin nods, his fingers flexing, as if he longs for his pen to write this down. “He faces down Hades, King of the Dead, and asks for her back. In return for the chance to save Eurydice, Orpheus plays a song on his lyre, and it’s so beautiful that it moves Hades’ cold heart. He allows them to leave, but on one condition: Orpheus is not allowed to look back to see if Eurydice is still there until they have left Hades, or she will remain there forever.” </p>
<p>Gerry finds that he is leaning in to listen, his breath caught in his throat. Martin has a way with telling stories, his voice pitched low and lilting in all the right places, that makes it impossible to stop listening. His ability to tell a tale extends just beyond the page, it seems. “And?” he asks, when Martin lapses into silence. “Do they make it?” </p>
<p>“Well, <em>no</em>,” Martin says awkwardly. “He returns to the land of the living alone, and Eurydice remains dead.” </p>
<p>Gerry lets out a huff of breath and finally straightens his posture upright again. “That’s a terrible story.” </p>
<p>“The Greeks loved their tragedy,” Martin agrees. “But the point of the story is that Hades had the chance to say no.” He looks over at Gerry, holding his gaze steady as he says, “You had the chance to leave Jon in our flat, regardless of how much he might have begged. A bargain is a bargain after all, and fae have their own rules with language.” </p>
<p>Martin pauses, the weight of the silence poised just so as he takes the opportunity to lean in towards Gerry. “But you’re giving him the chance to save me, despite the risk of both of us losing everything, so I have to wonder: Do you also want to be saved?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t know what sort of expression he’s making, but he can feel the question reverberate through his ribs. <em>Yes,</em> he wants to say. Or, <em>I don’t know</em>, or <em>is there a right answer?</em> </p>
<p>Instead, he forces himself to give a wry smile. “You really are an idealist, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Spell broken, Martin lets out a shaky laugh as he shrugs and finishes off his drink. “I’m an author who hates sad endings, even for the bad guys.” </p>
<p>Gerry shakes his head. “Withhold your judgement on my morality, Martin Blackwood-Sims, until the deadline has passed. Then we’ll see how strict my rules with language can be.” He means for it to sound ominous, not quite threatening, but the knowledge that at any moment Jon could turn around too soon and this would all be gone. </p>
<p>He turns to leave, but hesitates before he can step too far away. “Oh, perhaps this might bring you some comfort while you are here,” he says, and from the folds of space between his hip and his coattails, Gerry produces a thick, worn leather journal and hands it out. </p>
<p>“My notebook!” Martin’s eyes go bright and he takes the offered gift. “Oh, thank you!” </p>
<p>Gerry gives a polite nod of his head, and this time when he heads back off into the party proper, he doesn’t look back. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon wanders for as long as he dares in one direction. He lets his fingers trail over the damp inner wall of the labyrinth, trying to discern <em>any </em>sort of break in the monotony. </p><p>No luck. </p><p>His watch has stopped working, which seems rather unfair considering that he’s on a strict time limit for needing to solve this. His mobile as at home, on the bedside table. It probably wouldn’t have worked here, anyway. </p><p>When faced with a difficult problem at work, Jon would always divide it into smaller tasks and give each one a time limit. An hour for this, a day for this, only ten minutes spent drafting this irritated email to his boss. And when the timer went off, he would stop and move on to something else. </p><p>He can’t do the same thing here, can’t set a timer, can’t even tell the passing of the sun because <em>nothing</em> changes as he walks. Not the level of the light, not the temperature, not the shadows. It is like he is walking in place and his brain thinks his feet are moving but nothing else is. </p><p>Maybe he should count by steps. Twenty paces more, then he’ll turn around. </p><p>Then what? Twenty paces in the other direction? What good would that do? </p><p>To test the theory of absolutely nothing changing, Jon about-faces and heads over to the wall where he <em>thinks </em>had been the door the woman opened for him. If he hadn’t moved, then it should be right here, or at least close enough. </p><p>Jon grits his teeth and kicks it, more out of frustration than wanting any sort of conclusion. </p><p>There is a click, then a creak of an unoiled hinge coming from behind him. </p><p>Slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge, Jon turns around.</p><p>In the damp wall, where he had just been tracing his fingers in a bumpy, uneven, unbroken line, is a bright yellow door swinging open. </p><p>He stares at it. </p><p>It stares back — which, really, it shouldn’t, because it’s a <em>door</em>, but there is something about the yawning mouth of the goldenrod wood that just feels like it is watching him. </p><p>Waiting. </p><p>And, well… He’s already stuck in an un-turning labyrinth trying to save his husband from a Goblin King that by all rights shouldn’t exist, so what’s the worst that could happen to him at this point? He’s already trapped. </p><p>Summoning whatever sort of courage he can muster — the reckless, headstrong attitude that carried him through most of college — Jon approaches the door and stares through the opening. </p><p>Beyond is a neatly paved terrace of sorts, sandstone balcony leading down to a set of stairs, and hedges and urns of decorative roses, and now <em>that</em> is a proper maze. </p><p>“Okay,” he says to no one in particular. “Guess I’ll go through the spooky door that leads to somewhere else entirely.” </p><p>As if in answer, the door swings open wider in a non-existent breeze. </p><p>Jon is too tired of this place to really care, so he steps through and let the door swing shut behind him. “Thank you,” he means to tell it, but when he turns to look, it isn’t there. </p><p>He stares at the space left behind, an unblemished smooth beige wall. </p><p>“Naturally.” He heaves a weary sigh and begins his exploration of this place. </p><p>Considering that there are actual levels and turns and archways, and he can still see the castle at the center of the labyrinth, Jon figures he must be on the right path. </p><p>The castle disappears every so often — behind a tree or blocked by a high wall as he descends a flight of stairs. But it is always where he expects it to be when he passes through to see it again. So at least that is a constant. </p><p>To test a theory, he turns around to head back up the flight of stairs he just descended. </p><p>It is, instead, the same flight down, and there is the castle ahead of him. </p><p>“Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?” he says to the silence. </p><p>There is another creak of an unoiled hinge, and Jon thinks, if he had any sort of imagination whatsoever, it might sound like a drawn out laugh of delight. </p><p>Jon heads down the stairs and finds another yellow door set into a recess on the wall, on the other side of a stone bench courteously placed there as if for a weary traveler. </p><p>This time, the door is cracked open only a degree, so Jon leans over the bench and pushes it open further. </p><p>Much the same as where he is now, but unfamiliar enough that he feels like he can safely say he hasn’t been through this way yet. </p><p>He steps through, and this time the door remains open behind him. </p><p>There is another door across the way. </p><p>Curiosity getting the better of him now, Jon follows through that one as well. And another, and another — stepping through to find three in this part of the labyrinth, or five, or sometimes just two. </p><p>He moves forward until he gets to a pair, set on walls facing one another. Jon debates between the two, because neither of them lean more in the direction of the castle, and they are very obviously not just doors to the other side of the wall. That he’s figured out long before, using the castle as a distance marker and watching it get further and closer and to the left and to the right so he has to reorient himself each time he heads through a door. </p><p>But the opening doors had always vaguely pointed towards the castle until now. </p><p>Slowly, considering, Jon approaches the one on the left. He pushes it open, sees just another expanse that only looks familiar because this whole place is starting to blend together in a disconcerting way. </p><p>Leaving that door open, he retreats across the way to the door on the right, and opens that one. </p><p>It reveals the exact same scene as the one behind him, but completely mirrored. </p><p>“That’s incredibly unhelpful,” he tells the door before him. </p><p>The unoiled hinge laughter echoes again, and Jon whips around to watch five impossibly long fingers curl around the outer edge of the door. He watches, horrified, as the door gets pushed closed — his vision twisting in such a way that he never actually gets to see who is behind the door. </p><p>And then a hand grabs the back of his collar and yanks him through the still-open door behind him. </p><p>Jon tumbles back through it with a yelp, tripping over his own feet and skinning his palm against the sandstone slab beneath him. </p><p>There is no door in front of him, though he has long stopped expecting one. Just a low row of bushes and another stone bench, and that is what he must have tripped over because his legs are draped over it like he is having just one hell of a bender. </p><p>He allows himself to collapse back onto the floor for a moment, arms spread out, glaring up at the unchanging sky and wondering just <em>how </em>much time he wasted doing that. </p><p>Tired, resigned, he pushes himself up with a low groan of effort and a swear, and dusts off his back and his pants. Hands aren’t too badly scraped, and at least he didn’t hit his head, or this would have just become a lot harder. </p><p>Laughter sounds from around a corner — different from the one echoing around the yellow doors as they opened and closed at seemingly random. This laughter is more than one voice, rising and falling as if telling great jokes and then hushing each other to let one finish. </p><p>Having no better leads, or really any leads, and having not seen an actual person (disembodied hand not counting) since the woman outside the labyrinth, Jon follows that sound to a wall covered in vines, and two strange doors standing before it. </p><p>The doors are bracketed on either end, top and bottom, by a head, a pair of hands, and a pair of feet — so that four pairs of eyes turn to face him when he enters their little clearing — and four pairs of fingers tap out a delighted and curious rhythm on the door frames that they bracket. </p><p>“Who are you?” the blue-capped head on the lower left asks. </p><p>“Me?” Jon asks, confused, as if there could possibly be someone else nearby that the question could be directed to. </p><p>“No, the person <em>behind</em> you,” the upper right red-capped head says with no small degree of sarcasm. </p><p>Jon resists the gut urge to turn around and look. “How do you get—” He stops, considers, then tries again. “I’m trying to get to the castle at the center of the labyrinth,” he says. “Do you know the way?” </p><p>At this, the four heads begin a flurry of excited whispers, ducking behind the doors they bracket to confer with each other. </p><p>“Yes…” the lower right red-capped head says, though it sounds more like a question than it does a confident answer. </p><p>He tries a different tactic. “Will one of your doors get me to the castle at the center of the labyrinth?” </p><p>The upper two heads exchange a look, while the lower two whisper behind their doors. </p><p>“Yes,” the upper right says, sounding vaguely more confident. </p><p>Jon waits for further explanation, but doesn’t get any. “Which one?” </p><p>“Which what what?” the blue-capped head on the upper left asks, and Jon could kick himself (or them) as they all start snickering. </p><p>“Which of your doors leads me in the direction of the castle at the center of the labyrinth?” He is getting tired of having to repeat this phrase over and over again, but between these four (two?) and the woman at the front, he’s beginning to realize that if he isn’t <em>specific</em>, he won’t get specific answers. </p><p>“You’ll have to ask one of us only one question!” the lower right head says with no small amount of glee, which is picked up immediately by the upper right head. </p><p>“Yes! And you should know: One of us always tells the truth! And one of us <em>always</em> lies.” There’s a beat before it nods in the direction of the door on the left. “<em>They</em> always lie.”</p><p>“What?!” the blue-capped heads sputter in unison. </p><p>“I do not!” the upper left head blusters. </p><p>“I tell the truth!” the lower left head spouts. </p><p>“Oh! What a lie!” </p><p>“Why you—” </p><p>Jon pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, waiting for their bickering and snickering to calm down. He has so many questions about the process of this, especially if they have been lying to him since the beginning — despite how hackneyed that honesty condition seems to the moment — but he has to at least pretend to play by their rules. “Alright…” he says, but when that doesn’t work to curb their mounting argument, he says, louder, “alright!” </p><p>This gets them to stop, and they duck their chins behind their doors to peer over the edges with wide and curious eyes. </p><p>He considers the pair of doors, then approaches the blue-capped pair on the left. </p><p>They watch his approach warily, and return his study with equal scrutiny. </p><p>Knowing that he’s probably better off asking the wall behind him which is the better option, he takes a breath and asks, “If I were to ask them—” he nods at the red-capped pair “—would they say that <em>this </em>door leads to the castle?” </p><p>They stare at him, then down at each other. There is a frantic, whispered conversation that Jon can’t make out a single word to, and then the blue-capped pair looks pleadingly at the red-capped pair, who simply shrug. </p><p>“Yes?” they finally venture with the same sort of surety they’ve answered every other question. </p><p>“Then the other door leads to the castle, and this door leads to, oh, I don’t know, certain death or something.” Jon turns to step over to the red door. </p><p>“W-wait,” the lower head asks on the blue door. “But they could be telling the truth!” </p><p>“But then you wouldn’t be,” he answers simply. “If you said they said yes, the answer is no.” </p><p>Their brow furrows and they look at the red door again before back to him. “I could be telling the truth.” </p><p>“Then <em>they</em> would be lying, and the answer would still be no.” </p><p>There is a beat before the upper head looks down at the lower head, and the lower head looks up at the upper head. “Is that right?” </p><p>The pair of red-capped heads shrug both sets of hands and wiggle both sets of feet. “I don’t know, I’ve never understood it!” </p><p>The four heads break out into a chorus of laughter, and Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. He expected this, honestly, but it is still annoying. </p><p>He reaches for the handle on the red door and pushes it open as he steps through — only noticing at the last second, as his foot fails to land on anything solid and his body weight tips forward, that the door has turned from red to yellow, and the oil-hinge laughter follows him down as he falls. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His fall is halted by a pair of hands. And then another pair of hands. And a third, fourth, and it isn’t until he realizes that <em>yes</em>, his glasses are still in place, that he’s <em>not</em> just imagining what he’s seeing. </p><p>He is in a chute. Filled with hands. </p><p>A strangled cry works its way out of his throat as he struggles to free himself. “Let me go!” </p><p>“Oh?” a chorus of voices asks, and for a moment the grip around him slacks and he drops another few feet before they catch him again. “Like that?” </p><p>He bites back the urge to cry for help, because in a place like this, he’s more likely to get something completely unwanted. “What the hell are you?” </p><p>A collection of hands make an elaborate gesture before they come together to form a grinning face. “We are helping!” the face says. </p><p>Another set just to his left repeats the motion, and a second face says, “We are helping hands.” </p><p>Jon could just about scream. Because <em>why</em> can’t anything around here be normal? Why does <em>helping hands </em>have to be so literal, and why are they in a chute behind a yellow door? </p><p>“Of course you are,” he says eventually into the waiting silence. “So what kind of help are you lending me today?” </p><p>A face forms. “Which way would you like to go?” </p><p>“Up or down?” one asks from just over his shoulder. </p><p>“Yes, up—” </p><p>“—or down?” </p><p>They continue like that, a spiral of ever changing faces swirling around him, creating a strange mess of shadows from the light filtering in from the still open door over head. </p><p>Jon cranes his neck back to glance up, wondering if he can make it back out of the door and if it would lead to the two he had just been at or if it would be somewhere else. He wonders how it works for the nature of the story to have it fundamentally undermined by some ghost with long fingers, a weird laugh, and yellow doors. He wonders just what it means for him, and where he is. </p><p>Eventually his decision is made for him by that very same long-fingered hand reaching in to give a cheery if not a little mocking wave and pull the door shut behind it. </p><p>The chute returns to darkness, and Jon can’t see anything but hands all the way up, hands all the way down, and tries to think about which direction would be the more uncomfortable sensation. </p><p>“I suppose I’ll go down.” Being in a controlled drop by hands that he can pretend are something else seems mildly better than being passed from grip to grip upwards. And at least this way he’ll get a split second warning from his feet hitting whatever is below first than his head running into it. </p><p>“Doooown?” the faces chorus in surround sound. </p><p>“He chose down?” </p><p>“He chose down!” </p><p>“Wait—” Jon starts, wondering if that was the wrong choice, before the hands release him at once and the fall is less controlled and more buffeted by rubbery fingers as he slides down the rest of the chute. </p><p>It is, thankfully, a short trip — and he’s practically shoved out through the opening into a dusty, barely illuminated room hollowed out of the stone walls. The fall from the ceiling to the floor is, also thankfully, short. </p><p>His feet hit dirt and slip out from beneath him, and he sprawls out on his back for the second time that hour and watches as another yellow door is pulled shut by the helping hands. </p><p>“Some help,” he mutters before slowly shoving himself back upright to take stock of his surroundings. </p><p>The room is probably about fifty paces by twenty, and is empty except for a pile of dusty junk in one oddly-angled corner. There are no doors, not even one on the ceiling… Not that he thinks he could pull anything free from that junk pile and haul himself back up into it. </p><p>Finally, <em>finally</em>, the defeat starts to inch in across his shoulders, and he gives one last defiant yell of frustration before sinking down into a crouch and burying his face in his hands. </p><hr/><p>Gerry doesn’t like to think of his seat as a throne. Now his mother’s chair, when she had been queen — that had been a throne. All elaborate and ostentatious and uncomfortable, as if looking the part was far more important than being practical. </p><p>His chair is far simpler, but it’s still positioned in such a way in the main hall that it looks down at everything else — at where his subjects would gather to ask for his ruling on matters, or to just generally complain about <em>something</em>. </p><p>The hall is empty now, save for Gerry and Trevor, the grizzly old guard hovering just out of sight behind him. </p><p>He doesn’t have anything to look over, except for the way that the light plays across the stone floor, and run through the events of the day before. </p><p>Martin’s question of <em>why</em> keeps running over in his head. The possibility that there was a mistake in the summoning, because this <em>shouldn’t </em>have happened. </p><p>Because <em>yes</em>, he does want to be saved, but he doesn’t know from what or how that would even work. </p><p>He hears footsteps behind him, and a soft whispered conversation as Julia joins them in the room. Still he doesn’t look up as his two guards approach his chair. Throne. His stupid seat that he might as well just get rid of because honestly, what purpose does it serve? </p><p>“Your Majesty?” Julia performs a small half-bow, her voice pitched low to not disturb the silence of the surroundings. “There’s been an update on the man in the labyrinth.” </p><p>Gerry grunts for her to continue. </p><p>“We just got word that he’s in the oubliette.” </p><p>He sits up so fast he nearly smacks his head against hers as she leans in towards him. “He’s what?” </p><p>“In the—” </p><p>“No, I heard you.” He stands, then sits back down and puts a hand to his chin in thought. “He shouldn’t have gotten as far as the oubliette. And how did he get <em>down</em> there anyway?” </p><p>“We believe that there’s been someone interfering with the course of the labyrinth.” Julia pauses when Gerry gives her a look. “I mean, beyond the way that <em>we’ve </em>been interfering with the labyrinth. He was at the Stranger’s doors, and then—” She gives a hapless shrug. </p><p>He rubs his chin, then rubs his forehead. The pair of doors with their stupid riddle that even they can’t get right half the time don’t lead to the oubliette. They don’t really lead anywhere, not to the castle or to certain doom or whatever it is that they promise. They just lead <em>away</em>. “Do you have any idea who?” </p><p>There is a beat, when the two guards must exchange a look. “Tonner is still out there…” Julia starts, but Trevor cuts her off to say, “I’m dealing with Tonner.” </p><p>Gerry doesn’t want to know what that means. For all intents and purposes, Daisy Tonner made her allegiance clear when she left the castle. But typically Trevor’s definition of <em>dealing with it</em> is never a very gentle one. </p><p>“Find out then,” Gerry orders. When neither of them move, he motions with his hand for a simple spell and they’re gone. </p><p>Alone in the hall once again, Gerry slumps back in his chair and begins to think. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon’s despair quickly turns into frustration. He’s very good at channeling his depression into something else — not always productive things, and now is certainly not productive, but he does feel a lot better after storming around the room and kicking over what he can. </p><p>It results in a broken crate, a few chipped pieces of pottery that turn into smashed pieces of pottery, and a stubbed toe when he swings too hard at the remains of a dusty tapestry hanging over a solid wooden door. </p><p>He’s limping in an angry circle trying to think, trying to figure out what to do next, when a canary yellow door swings open and the woman from outside the labyrinth stumbles into the room. </p><p>They both stop — Jon staring at her with wide eyes and anger temporarily forgotten, and her not quite in his direction but still close enough. Her knife hangs sheathed at her belt. </p><p>Jon is so distracted by her sudden appearance that he doesn’t even notice until the door <em>snicks</em> shut and is gone. “Fuck,” he swears, annoyed that he didn’t try to head through it — regardless of where it lead, because at least it would be out of this room. </p><p>Unless, of course, it lead to another one of these and the woman had somehow found herself stuck in one. </p><p>“Language,” said woman berates with false cheer. “You kiss your husband with that mouth?” </p><p>Jon glares because he doesn’t want to deign that with a response. </p><p>“Besides…” She pulls a ring of keys out from her jacket pocket and swings them around one finger. “Is that any way to react to someone who is here to save you?” </p><p>He scoffs despite himself. “Save me.” </p><p>“Of course! That’s what friends do!”</p><p>“Friends?” he asks as she brushes past him. “I don’t even know your name.” </p><p>“I know yours, Jonathan.” </p><p>The frown is automatic as he watches her select a key and then begin to start feeling around on the wall for what he could only guess is a keyhole. “It’s Jon, actually.” </p><p>“Alright, sure.” </p><p>“And you are?” </p><p>“Saving your ass.” Her hand lands on the tapestry before he can get the chance to step forward and help her. She feels around for the keyhole behind it, then adds, somewhat brusquely, “I’m Melanie.” </p><p><em>That wasn’t so hard now was it?</em> Jon wants to ask, but holds it back. No need to actively get on her bad side. </p><p>The key, miraculously, goes into the keyhole on the first try — despite the fact that he didn’t watch her fumble through the multiple options to find the one she used. </p><p>The door, when it swings open, lets out a rush of junk that collides with Melanie in a landslide. </p><p>“Oops,” she says, forcing it back shut as Jon stifles a laugh. “Well, can’t be right all the time.” This time, she does take a moment to feel around on the keys before giving a soft <em>ah-hah</em> and plucking one from the ring. </p><p>This time the door opens into a hallway, light filtering in from above, and a breath of cool air rushes into the room. </p><p>“Much better.” Melanie sticks the keys back into her pocket and scrambles over the now larger pile of junk and out into the hall. </p><p>When Jon doesn’t immediately follow, she turns to glare at him. “Well, come on!” </p><p>He carefully picks his way around the detritus, sliding down the other side of the mound into the hallway beside her. “Why are you helping me?” </p><p>She shrugs. “Bored, I guess.” </p><p>“Why <em>now</em>?” </p><p>Melanie opens her mouth, probably with what she thinks is a witty comeback, but then her breath catches and she hesitates. Eventually, on a sigh, she shakes her head. “It seemed a little unfair for you to wind up in the oubliette.” </p><p>“<em>Oubliette</em>?” he repeats, able to figure out just what it is intended for by the name alone. </p><p>“She said she was only playing, would have let you out eventually, but you can’t always <em>trust</em> Helen.” Melanie has her hands shoved back into her pockets and stalks off down the hall in a seemingly random direction, but considering the fact that Jon can’t tell what direction the sun is or where the castle is in relation to anything, either direction is as good as any. </p><p>So he follows after. “I’m sorry, who is Helen?” </p><p>“Those yellow doors you keep seeing pop up? Yeah, that’s her. Generally harmless pranks, and she is actually weirdly fond of you, for whatever her fondness counts for.” She gives a shrug. “I mean, I’m friends with her, so I guess it counts for something.” </p><p>“And she told you where to find me?” </p><p>“DIdn’t have to when she can just open a door to wherever she wants, but yeah. Close enough.” </p><p>Jon runs his hands through his hair, the frustration returning. But at least this time it is just caught up with a general sort of confusion instead of the previous anger. “Where are you taking me now?” </p><p>“Up and out,” Melanie says without further clarification as they round a corner in the tunnel. </p><p>A figure is huddled up on the far side of the hall, half hidden in shadows, looking more like a pile of rags than a person. But as it lurches to its feet, and Melanie immediately halts, Jon watches as a shapeless mass turns into limbs and well-appointed clothes and the Goblin King steps out into the light filtering down from a grate overhead. </p><p>A small, strangled sound leaks out of Melanie as she jerks back, bumping into Jon from where he’s poised right behind her. </p><p>But the Goblin King isn’t even looking at her. He is, in fact, glaring at Jon. “Jonathan,” he says through his teeth, the terse sound of it strained despite the smile. </p><p>“Your Majesty,” Jon replies with equal poise. </p><p>“How are you finding the labyrinth?” As if he’s asking abut the weather, or the hotel accomodations. </p><p>Jon looks around, eyebrows lifting at the state of the tunnels they’re in — a thin trickle of water, stone covered in moss, grating overhead letting in a pale yellow sun. “It’s a piece of cake,” he finally answers, somehow managing to keep the tremor from his voice as he does so. </p><p>Beside him, Melanie gives a soft, pained groan. </p><p>“Oh?” The Goblin King lifts his hand, and the clock he had presented to Jon at the top of the hill what feels like an era ago hovers over his palm. Jon is terrified to see that the hands are inching towards <em>eleven</em>. </p><p>Had he really walked for almost two days? When had he slept? He hasn’t eaten, he doesn’t feel all that exhausted, and his feet are only a little tired. Trapped in some sort of liminal state. </p><p>The Goblin King watches Jon’s reaction without any sort of flicker of emotion. “Then how is this little slice?” With one finger, he pushes the clock hands <em>around, around, around</em>, and overhead the watery light, barely able to pierce the gloom, dims and brightens and dims and brightens — a sun pinwheeling overhead, when it had never shown any movement before. </p><p>Finally, it comes to a stop nearing eight, and Jon’s knees feel weak. </p><p>“That’s not fair.” The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he hates the whinging tone they contain. </p><p>But the Goblin King ignores him and turns his attention to Melanie. “And how are we this fine afternoon, Miss King?” </p><p>She refuses to even face him. “‘s fine,” she mutters. </p><p>“You wouldn’t be helping Mister Blackwood-Sims here, would you?” </p><p>Her shoulders barely make a movement up and down. </p><p>The Goblin King sighs and tuts, as if witnessing a child that is too stubborn to come in and wash her hands. “Don’t forget about what happened the last time you tried to make it to the center of the labyrinth.” </p><p>At this, Melanie’s shoulders stiffen and she hunches until they about reach the level of her ears. </p><p>“You’re still not allowed in the city, so watch your step.” He enunciates the last three words with sharp precision. </p><p>With one last meaningful look at Jon, one that Jon doesn’t actually know how to interpret, the Goblin King steps back into the shadow and melts with the darkness. </p><p>There’s a beat, then two, then Melanie seems to get her emotions back in check. “Come on,” she grumbles, and starts to stalk onward. </p><p>“Wait,” Jon says, surprised to find his voice cracking on the word. He clears his throat and hurries after her. “Wait, Melanie.” </p><p>She jerks her arm away from him when he attempts to get her attention. “We’re leaving.” </p><p>“As in leaving the tunnel or—” </p><p>Melanie shakes her head and swipes angrily at her fringe — hair plastered to her forehead despite the chill of the tunnels now sticking up at odd angles. “You’re never going to make it, Jon. Trust me: You don’t have what it takes.” </p><p>The pieces line up, because it’s not hard, they’re all right there for him to read. “You mean just because you didn’t, you don’t think I can make it?”</p><p>She whirls on him so fast that he reels back a pace, afraid she might actually draw her knife on him. “You have to understand my position,” she says, and against all odds, her voice strains and cracks at the edges. “The Goblin King terrifies me.” </p><p><em>Terrifies</em> seems like an incredibly strong word. Sure, he’s a bit rude, and doesn’t quite understand what it means to play fair, but it’s all just a story. It’s all elements put together in a specific pattern. </p><p>“He doesn’t seem all that bad…” Jon muses. </p><p>Her shoulders droop and she looks like she can’t decide if she wants to give up on him or slap him. “You can still say that after he kidnapped your husband and tossed you into the labyrinth?” </p><p>Jon knows that, when put like that, it sounds worse than it is. Because it’s just another story that Martin has written, and despite not <em>liking</em> genre fiction, Jon <em>knows</em> it. He knows how it is supposed to go. “I could be stuck in a queue that doesn’t go anywhere, or Disneyland Paris with a bunch of teenagers, or even hell, even the DVLA.” </p><p>“Please take this seriously, and realize the situation that you’re in!” </p><p>“What <em>is</em> my situation, Melanie? What don’t I know about it that you seem to?” This time, when he reaches for her hand — just the slightest brush of his fingers against her palm, a reassurance — she doesn’t pull away. </p><p>Instead, a heavy, resigned sigh spills out of her. She resumes her trip, but this time, keeps an easier pace as she explains. “About a year or so ago, my girlfriend got taken. And… Well, it’s incredibly stupid. We did it on purpose.” </p><p>Jon lifts an eyebrow, but resists the urge to snort. “What, like summoning Bloody Mary by saying her name in the mirror?” </p><p>“It’s the kind of people we are. Were. We made a living off of hunting down hauntings and legends and trying to debunk them.” </p><p>His mind helpfully supplies a list of podcasts that he started listening to with Martin, and he sorts through the titles to try and guess. “What, you mean like <em>Ghost Hunt UK</em>?” Then, as soon as he said it, it all makes sense. “<em>You’re</em> <em>Ghost Hunt UK</em>!” </p><p>Melanie gives a half-hearted laugh. “Not for a long time. Even before we left.” </p><p>“Martin is <em>obsessed</em> with podcasts covering your disappearance.” </p><p>“I hope they only say absolutely horrid things about me and Georgie.” </p><p>“They’re surprisingly delicate about the matter.” </p><p>“Ugh. Fakers.” Melanie rounds a corner and pauses for a moment in consideration. “Is there a ladder further down the hall?” </p><p>Jon moves to check, and the gloom resolves into metal staples leading up the tunnel wall to a hatch overhead. “There is.” </p><p>She rejoins his side and hands him the ring of keys. “It’s a difficult angle for me. Key should have a matching symbol on the door.” </p><p>He takes the offered gift. “Can you tell me more about what happened to you and Georgie? About how you ended up here?” </p><p>Her sigh is lost as his sneakers squeak and slip their way up the rungs. “Well, we managed to summon the Goblin King, or she did. And I was told that to try and get her back, I would have to journey to the castle at the center of the labyrinth.” </p><p>“And?” </p><p>She waits until he fits the key in the lock, a difficult angle even while being able to see, and he shoves the door open with a grunt. “I made it as far as the city. <em>Record time</em>, he said, though I don’t know how long it took. But then his guards kicked me out.” </p><p>Her tone implies there is more to that, possibly including what happened to her eyes, but that she will not answer any questions regarding it. </p><p>So Jon pulls himself out of the tunnel, and lends a hand to Melanie when she reaches the top of the ladder. The sandstone tiles from earlier in the labyrinth are still present, but the walls are lower and it starts to shift into a hedge maze. </p><p>There, closer than before, enough to give a degree of hope, lurks the castle. </p><p>He pulls the keys out of the hatch, and swings it close behind them. He turns his attention back to the woman as she dusts off her jacket. “And you never went home?”</p><p>“What, blind and without my girlfriend?” She snorts and tosses her head. “Nothing there but a podcast that people scoffed at, and the possibility here that one day the Goblin King will just keel over and I’ll get Georgie back.” </p><p>Jon wonders what it will be like if he doesn’t get Martin — returning to an empty apartment and a job he dislikes and a bed that’s too large for only himself. But staying here, hoping against hope that, one day, he’ll get his husband back? </p><p>Both are awful, and he wants to apologize to Melanie without knowing what sort of words to say. </p><p>He’s saved from the decision as a low, mournful how stretches out across the shrubbery. </p><p>Melanie tenses at the sound, and Jon watches the conflict rage across her face. Then her jaw clenches and she straightens her shoulders. “Listen, you want someone who can get you to the center of the labyrinth? Follow me.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon jogs after Melanie, wondering (and not for the first time) how she can be so sure footed in a <em>maze without</em> being able to see. But she takes the turns at seemingly random, and the howling voice grows closer with each turn. </p><p>She pulls up short as the hedge maze opens into a cobblestone clearing. “Tell me what you see,” she whispers, pushing her back against the wall and clutching the hilt of her dagger with one hand. “But if there’s anyone else there, don’t let them see you.” </p><p><em>Anyone else other than who</em>, Jon wants to ask, but he’s out of breath from having to keep up with her that he doesn’t bother wasting what he does have on the question. </p><p>As it is, the answer quickly becomes apparent as he notices the howling coming from a large wolf, practically hogtied and suspended from coarse ropes as two smaller wolves pace in circles beneath. </p><p>The smallest of the three, a mottled brown and black with lips pulled back in a wicked smile that would put Red Riding Hood’s wolf to shame, lunges and nips at the haunches of the bound wolf. </p><p>The other pacing beast, all shades of grey, and favoring one back leg, doesn’t press an attack. But the claws click menacingly on the stone. </p><p>Jon pulls back, heart thundering in his chest and mouth suddenly dry. “There’s two wolves attacking a third.” He wants to ask if hiding like this would actually do any good, since they’re wolves, and they could probably already smell the two of them. </p><p>But Melanie grumbles out a swear and pulls her dagger free. “The two circling are the Goblin King’s personal guards.”</p><p>“And the third?” </p><p>She blows out a breath and hazards, “A friend?” She says it with the same sort of uncertainty when she was talking about Helen earlier. “Someone who should be willing to help,” Melanie amends after a moment. </p><p>“Alright,” Jon says, and because he can’t think of a better solution than the one that immediately pops into his head, he repeats, “alright.” </p><p>“What—” she tries, but Jon steps past her and into the entry of the clearing. </p><p>“Hey!” he shouts, and he can hear Melanie’s anguished groan from just out of sight. </p><p>The two wolves freeze, then slowly turn to face him. </p><p>“Well,” the grey one says, and Jon doesn’t know <em>why</em> it startles him that they talk. Because of course they do, why wouldn’t they, everything else in this place defies his existing logic. “What do we have here?” </p><p>“Oh, His Majesty wouldn’t be pleased to see you…” the smaller one says, though her tone implies that she doesn’t much care what His Majesty thinks. “Go on then, scram.” </p><p>Jon blanks, and attempts to swallow down his terror. “You scram.” </p><p>Melanie, still hidden, smacks her forehead with her palm. “You have a death wish?” she hisses, but Jon ignores her. </p><p>He pulls her ring of keys out of his pocket, testing the heft of it in one hand. </p><p>In the time that it took for him to study the keys and look back again, two humans stand where the wolves had been. The grey wolf is replaced by a grizzled older man, who sort of looks on unimpressed as Jon stares back. The smaller wolf is a young woman, probably a little younger than Jon, all lean muscle and a look on her face that seems about ready to rip his jugular out with her teeth. </p><p>“I suppose if we stop you from getting to the city, then we can save ourselves the effort of disposing of you there,” the man says, and takes a step forward. </p><p>Jon hurls the keyring, despite Melanie’s yelp of protest when she hears them jangle through the air. </p><p>Surprisingly, probably the most surprising thing since ending up here, they hit the old man in the chest and he catches them, startled. </p><p>His companion starts to laugh, and then the yellow door opens up beneath their feet. </p><p>It swings inward and the two of them give howls of shock as they plummet through and Jon is left staring, speechless, as the long-fingered hand appears around the door-frame. </p><p>Piece by piece, like the idea of a person resolving into a physical construct, a woman in a loud suit pulls herself out of the door, keyring looped around one finger. She delicately crouches down and pulls the door shut, letting it vanish like it had never been there. </p><p>“<em>Well</em>,” the woman says with that unoiled hinge laugh. “I’ve never thought about fighting them <em>that</em> way.” She gives Jon a grin that is too wide and too sharp. “Where is Melanie, or did you steal these keys from her?” </p><p>“I’m here, Helen,” Melanie says — stepping out from around the hedge and shaking her head as she walks past him. </p><p>“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t misplace the gift I gave you.” Helen’s too-long fingers reach for Melanie’s hand, and she places the keyring gently in the waiting palm. “I wouldn’t want to make his job <em>too</em> easy, after all.” There is another grin aimed at Jon. </p><p>Before Jon can get the chance to argue, or to ask for an explanation, the wolf still strung up begins to struggle against the bonds with a low, dangerous growl. </p><p>Melanie approaches with hands up, knife still clutched in her grip. “It’s okay, Daisy. We’ll get you down.” </p><p>Jon takes a step closer to help, but Daisy only growls louder, her lips curling away in a snarl to reveal the sharp teeth beneath. “I just want to help…” Jon tries to imitate the placating tone that Melanie used, but his voice shakes a little too much to be convincing. </p><p>“She probably thinks you smell,” Melanie says casually, and waves him off. </p><p>“I… It’s not my fault there’s no shower here—” </p><p>“You do have a touch of the Goblin King on you,” Helen cuts in delightedly, tapping one finger against her chin as she studies Jon with eyes that look like an optical illusion. </p><p>He gets dizzy if he keeps her gaze too long, so he looks away. “It is his fault that I’m here, so any <em>eau de Goblin King</em> is not my fault.” </p><p>With a combination of grumbling, muttered platitudes, and a few apologies, Melanie eventually is able to free the wolf from her trap. </p><p>Daisy scrambles back, crouching low in a defensive position with her ears flat against her head. “Who are you?” she asks, voice deceptively delicate for such a beast. </p><p>“Jon, be nice, introduce yourself.” Melanie sheathes her knife and crosses her arms over her chest. She also takes a considerable step back, as if to say <em>if she attacks you, I’m not helping</em>.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to act around dogs — especially big dogs. That is Martin’s specialty. So he tries to keep the tension from his shoulders, the urge to hunch up and retreat like a cat knowingly ironic in the situation. <em>Remember: This is a formula.</em> “My name is Jon. The Goblin King has my husband, and I’m trying to journey to the castle at the center of the labyrinth to save him.” </p><p>He wonders over the formula relegating Martin to the role of <em>husband</em>, when he’s so much more than that. Having to act as the passive victim waiting in the castle instead of the active person he is in Jon’s life. </p><p>That’s not something he needs to say to these people though, but if anyone was to understand it would be Melanie. The other woman refuses to even turn her attention towards him long enough for him to figure out how to ask, though. </p><p>The wolf approaches slowly, some of the aggression leaving her form and her ears perking back up. “My name is Daisy Tonner,” she says in that delicate voice. “I used to be the captain of the Goblin King’s guard.” </p><p>After a moment’s hesitation, he holds out his hand towards her. “It’s nice to meet you.” </p><p>She sniffs it, then sits back on her haunches and gives a surprisingly human nod of her head. </p><p>Jon wants to ask why she’s a wolf when the other two turned back into humans, but he thinks he can put it together easily enough. <em>Used to be</em> speaks volumes of what must have happened. </p><p>He files that as a note for later. </p><p>“Will you be able to assist me in getting to the castle?” he asks, remembering Melanie’s words when they emerged from the tunnel. </p><p>
  <em>You want someone who can get you to the center of the labyrinth?</em>
</p><p>The wolf glances between Melanie and Helen before nodding her head again in Jon’s direction. “I will at least be able to get you to the city, perhaps even through it. I will take you where I can.” </p><p>The relief drains him of the last bits of his tightly-wound energy, and Jon feels like he might just collapse right there. But he doesn’t have the time. He has, in fact, two days <em>less</em> after his quip with the Goblin King in the sewers. So he keeps himself as steady as he can. “Thank you.” </p><p>“<em>Well</em>,” Melanie intones loudly and dramatically, clapping her hands together. “If that’s it then, I’m leaving.” </p><p>“Wait—” Jon takes a step towards her, but she shoots him a glare so sharp that he feels pinned in place. “What about Georgie?” </p><p>She closes the distance between them far faster than he gave her credit for, and the punch comes as an incredible surprise. </p><p>He stumbles and trips over his own feet, landing hard on his butt and clutching a hand to his face, completely unable to come up with any sort of reaction. </p><p>Towering over him, the scar across her corneas and skin looking red and ragged in the setting sun, Melanie clenches her hands into fists and barely contains the rage that shakes her entire body. “You don’t get to say her name, you hear me?” she hisses. </p><p>Without waiting for his response, she storms off. Stomping again, he thinks wildly, listening to her boots slamming against cobblestones as she vanishes into the hedges. </p><p>Then it sinks into Jon’s brain that the <em>sun is actually setting</em>, which he hadn’t seen happen during the entire time he had been here — not counting the days that the Goblin King fast-forwarded through. </p><p>He’s so tired, but he still has so much further to go. </p><p>Suddenly, Helen laughs and sighs and has such a fond smile on her oddly angled face when Jon glances at her. “She’s nice, I like her.” </p><p>Jon groans and rubs a hand over his exhausted face. </p><hr/><p>Martin doesn’t know how long he has been here, and there’s no one around who will answer him when asked. </p><p>He hasn’t seen Gerry since that awkward party, though he has seen the two guards — watching him occasionally from the wings or trailing several steps behind. He wonders if they’re supposed to be protecting him from the “enemies” that Gerry mentioned, or if they’re waiting to protect their king from <em>him</em>. </p><p>Which is, of course, a ridiculous thought, because Martin doesn’t think he’s any sort of threat. He probably looks like a morose gothic maiden, getting ready to waste away the longer he’s separated from Jon. </p><p>Alright, maybe not <em>that </em>bad. Though sometimes he feels like it might be worth giving in to the urge to sulk the entire time. </p><p>This place is far too fascinating to just leave well enough alone, though, so he wanders through the corridors and halls — passing through any unlocked door, leaving any that won’t open to his touch. </p><p>Georgie is with him on this excursion, and she tells him some of the details that didn’t make it onto her podcast episodes about the ghost hunting. “I haven’t actually <em>seen</em> a ghost,” she admits. “Melanie has, though! Proper spooky.” </p><p>“And how does that compare to being here? In the castle of the Goblin King?” </p><p>She considers this, toying with one of the fraying edges of a patch on the corner of her jacket. “The history here is… <em>different</em>. There’s no great and grand legends. There’s no ghosts. It doesn’t feel like any of the castles that Melanie and I explored at home.” </p><p>It certainly doesn’t feel like any of the ones that he and Jon toured while on one of their rare vacations, but he also gets the feeling that Melanie and Georgie might have gone beyond the guided tours on their castle visits. </p><p>“It feels like a movie set,” Martin confesses. “Did you know I was working on a story about a Goblin King? Not this one, I hope. I don’t want to think about the possibility of writing all of this into existence. It was a sequel to some obscure series back in the seventies, and they wanted to bring it back so I got hired to write it.” </p><p>Georgie lifts an eyebrow and gives him a small, curious grin. “And what happened in your version of the story?” </p><p>“Well, that was part of the problem: I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” </p><p>“Oh?” </p><p>“I’ve been stuck because I couldn’t quite figure out what <em>I </em>wanted out of the story. Specifically, what my characters wanted. I had fairly free reign with what story I could tell, so long as I stuck to the established rules of their universe. I’ve just been floundering because it’s not my own world to explore, so I can’t solve my roadblock by doing that. And I can’t just write within guidelines because the rules they gave me were so lax.” He clutches his notebook, which sticks awkwardly out of his sweater pocket. It hasn’t left his side since Gerry gave it back to him — in the hopes that this will give him an answer, or keep him close to Jon. </p><p>“Is that what you were arguing about?” Georgie’s voice is soft, understanding. “The story?” </p><p>He heaves a sigh and his shoulders lift in a half-hearted shrug. “Sort of? He was complaining that I was losing myself too much in the story while not getting anywhere. Like walking into a headwind.” </p><p>Which isn’t wrong. Martin was trying to bury himself in the story in an attempt to find his way back out the other side, and that did put a lot of things on the back-burner. </p><p>One can only be <em>so close to getting it</em> for so long before admitting defeat, but he never wanted to do that. </p><p>Georgie loops her arm through his, not quite a hug, but a small gesture of solidarity. “Melanie and I often really got caught up in our projects and would fight over stupid little things like that. So I totally understand.” </p><p>“Why haven’t you left yet?” Martin asks, because the question has been bothering him <em>so much</em>. “If she’s out there, or even if she’s not, there’s no reason for you to stick around here.” Truth be told, there’s no reason for <em>him</em> to stick around, except for the fact that every time he considers that, he catches sight of Trevor or Julia lurking just at the corner of his line of sight. </p><p>And, perhaps, he thinks that he might be able to solve the answer to his story if he stays here. </p><p>He believes in Jon, knows that Jon will make it here in time and that they’ll be reunited. He believes that without a shadow of a doubt. So he will use that time in an attempt to figure out the answer to his story. </p><p>If he doesn’t by then, he’ll give up. He’ll leave this notebook here, and he and Jon will go home. </p><p>Georgie worries at her lower lip as she tries to figure out the answer. “To be honest, I don’t know if I could.” </p><p>Martin pulls up short and looks down at her. “What do you mean?” </p><p>She hesitates, then gestures at one of the walls. There’s no window, but Martin can picture the roofs of the goblin city beyond, and the cloudless sky hovering over it all. It’s an image he’s see more than enough over these last few days (hours weeks he really has no idea). “There’s no real history to this place, true, but there <em>is</em> a real powerful spell. My theory is that it’s designed as the focus for this entire place, city and labyrinth included, because who knows what’s beyond it. The labyrinth is huge. You can’t even see the edges of it from the highest towers in the castle.” </p><p>Georgie had shown him her perch early on in his time at the castle, and pointed out the landmarks that she knew and the stories she made up for the ones she didn’t. (A little later, after the Georgie raided the kitchen for wine and they sat on his bed and traded stories, she said how she liked to imagine Melanie down there in the warrens of the city or in the hedges of the maze. Like the prince who fell from Rapunzel’s tower. Wandering around, still stuck, still trying, but waiting for a curse to be broken.) </p><p>The edge of the labyrinth is a hazy unknown, reaching the horizon and beyond. </p><p>“The Goblin King hasn’t kept a secret from me if I asked him, since he said he wants me to feel like a guest and not—” She stops, trying to figure out what word she wants to use. </p><p>“A prisoner?” Martin offers, and she gives a subtle nod of her head. </p><p>Georgie leaves the fraying patch alone and fusses with a lone curl that escaped the confines of her bun. “The thing is, I don’t know the questions to ask. So I ask the wrong questions and get half-answers. There is a spell keeping the labyrinth together, and running. That much I know. But how the pieces of it slot together, I haven’t figured out.” </p><p>“Maybe I can help?” Martin would love to put his thoughts to something more productive. Sitting around wondering where Jon is only threatens to make him spiral, and Jon isn’t here to pull him out of it. This is the question of his story, the pieces all individual rings keeping the tension between one another and not ever clicking. </p><p>But to his surprise, George gives him a sad little smile. The expression is weak and doesn’t last long before falling into something that rings of pity. “If you want to keep your optimistic opinion of His Majesty, then I can’t tell you the details.” </p><p>He’s struck, all at once, how little he actually knows. Georgie has been here for a year, and is an investigative reporter for the strange and inexplicable at heart. The moment she learned she couldn’t leave, that Melanie couldn’t save her, she started to learn the mechanics of this place. </p><p>Is Martin going to wait until Jon’s deadline before he finally settles in to work on this puzzle? </p><p><em>If you want to keep your optimistic opinion of His Majesty, then I can’t tell you the details</em>. </p><p>He stares at her in stunned silence, and she holds his gaze steady. “What is that supposed to mean?” </p><p>She shakes her head and is the first to look away. “You’ll find out if you’re curious enough. It’s a story that needs to be solved. And if I can’t do it, maybe you can. But once you know, you’ll have to decide if you want to leave the balance as is or disturb it.” </p><p>Because this is a story, and he runs the risk of going off-script if he disturbs it. That could mean messing up Jon’s chance to save him, if that was even a possibility. </p><p>Martin knows, though, what his choice will be. </p><p>He is, after all, a writer who hates unhappy endings. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Daisy leads the way into the labyrinth, Jon and Helen on her heels. </p><p>Jon keeps casting curious glances at Helen, who flickers in and out of his line of vision more than <em>walks</em>. </p><p>She only smiles and lets her appearance flicker in, out, into someone else entirely with thinner lips and long blond hair, before back to the woman with the loud suit. “Did you enjoy my aid, earlier?” </p><p>He frowns and turns his attention back to the wolf, whose tail sweeps back and forth across the path before him. “If you’re able to open doors anywhere, why don’t you just open one for me to go directly to the castle.” </p><p>“Because that’s no fun!” </p><p>“I don’t want to have fun, I want to get Martin back.” </p><p>Helen laughs, and the sound echoes and distorts in her throat though it doesn’t carry far past their little group. “Not for you, silly! I get so few opportunities to be amused, I have to take them where I can.” </p><p>“Then I don’t see why you were calling it <em>aid</em>.” </p><p>“She helped you bypass large chunks of the labyrinth,” Daisy says without looking back. “The Strangers’ doors do not lead to the Oubliette.” </p><p>He remembers the door turning from red to yellow at the last moment, and then another yellow door spitting him out into the underground chamber. “Where do they normally lead?” </p><p>“Oh, wherever they feel like it, so long as it’s far away from the center.” </p><p>Jon bristles at this, hands clenching into fists. “Then what was the point of asking them anything? I could have picked either door and not wound up any closer!” </p><p>If wolves could give skeptical looks, the one that Daisy shot him would be a perfect example. “You’re working under the assumption that this place functions under some sort of governable rules. It <em>doesn’t</em>.” </p><p>The determination he built up and struggled to hold on to slowly leaks out of him like a balloon. “Then what is the <em>point</em>?” </p><p>“Proving you can.” Daisy shakes her head and picks up her pace. </p><p>Helen giggles a little. “We all need a good show every so often!” </p><p>“That’s incredibly unfair,” Jon grumbles. “This is all ridiculously imbalanced and the rules are… There aren’t even any rules! This isn’t a challenge.” </p><p>“No, it isn’t,” Daisy agrees. “It’s best if you don’t think of it as a play. You’re in a game, and your opponent has extremely powerful allies.” </p><p>She means the two guards that attacked her. <em>Her</em> former allies. He wonders who else there is. </p><p>“There’s also a lot of us who simply don’t care,” Helen volunteers. “I’m along for the ride, but I won’t actively hinder you.” </p><p>“But you won’t help either?” </p><p>“No more than I find absolutely amusing.” </p><p>Jon sighs. </p><p>The sun continues to maintain it’s position in the sky, casting a warm red glaze over everything, but hasn’t set any further. Hard to tell how much time has passed, but he’d warrant that he’s into seven days remaining. Or whatever sort of chunks of time pass as a day in this place. </p><p>Daisy rounds a corner, then lets out an annoyed growl. “Oh, <em>great</em>.” </p><p>There is a pair of doors before them, but unlike the red and blue pair from before with giggling and whispering heads, this set is built into a thick brick wall. Each door is a dark metal, and elaborate knockers are placed at head height. </p><p>Most disturbingly is how vaguely human the faces of the knockers look. </p><p>Jon has a half-remembered thought about some sci-fi show and statues that he tuned out very quickly (but Martin squeezed his arm throughout). They’re not weeping angels, for sure, but they’re still rather disquieting in their own right. </p><p>The knocker on the left is an old man with an impressively carved beard. The knocker loops through his ears, and seems to be what holds up the facade of a hat. </p><p>The knocker on the right has one of <em>the most</em> intense stares that Jon has ever witnessed, and the way that the eyes have been carved makes it seem like they follow as he moves in closer. The metal ring is set into this one’s mouth. </p><p>“These aren’t normally here,” Daisy explains, moving up to one of the doors and scratching at the footplate. </p><p>“This places moves constantly, and these <em>aren’t supposed to be here</em>?” Jon rubs his hand over his forehead and considers the two of them. “Any clue which one we should go through?” </p><p>Daisy sits back on her haunches and looks back and forth between them. “Not really, I hate them both.” </p><p>“What—” Jon starts at the same time the door on the left practically shouts, “What?!” </p><p>Jon jumps. “They can speak?” </p><p>Daisy’s grumbled, “Unfortunately…” is nearly lost beneath the left knocker demanding, “Speak up!” </p><p>The knocker on the right gives a long suffering groan and rolls those incredibly intense eyes. He mumbles something, but the words are muffled around the ring. </p><p>“Doors are always so delightfully fascinating,” Helen sighs, drifting closer to the pair. “Especially when they’re not mine.” </p><p>Jon steps up to the grumbling one on the right and, after the slightest hesitation, pulls the ring free. </p><p>Daisy gives a grunt, but otherwise doesn’t interfere. </p><p>“Oh, that is <em>much</em> better,” the knocker says, and flexes his lips now that they’re free. “No one ever stops to talk.” </p><p>“I don’t want to talk, I just want to know: What lies beyond these doors?” Jon isn’t too sure what to do with the ring in his grip, and ends up holding it awkwardly in front of the face. </p><p>“We’re just the knockers!” The face smiles, pleased. </p><p>A fair enough response. “How do I open you?” </p><p>The face can’t quite nod, but gestures with his mouth towards the ring in Jon’s hand. “Knock, and the door will open.” </p><p>“That is probably the most reasonable thing I’ve heard in this entire place,” Jon admits. He didn’t even know what he had been expecting. Some sort of pattern between the two, perhaps. Or needing to strike them at the same time. </p><p>Since he’s already holding this ring, Jon figures he might as well use this door. So he holds it back up to the face’s mouth. </p><p>The face, however, does <em>not</em> seem keen on accepting the ring back. </p><p>“Well, c’mon then, I need to knock.” Jon pushes it up, but the metal lips refuse to open. </p><p>“Doesn’t want his ring back, eh?” the other face laughs, who had been grumbling about kids not speaking up loud enough. “Can’t say that I blame him.” </p><p>Jon wonders if he would have been better off taking the ring out of the ears of the other, especially since it wouldn’t have been able to fight back against him trying to put the ring back. </p><p>Just when he wonders if he should give up and knock on the other door or just take the ring from the other and leave them alone to annoy each other, Helen reaches over his shoulder and pinches shut the metal nose on the face with the piercing eyes. </p><p>Jon watches as the face clearly struggles, and wonders how a metal face set into a door is supposed to <em>breathe</em>. He hadn’t even thought to try that. </p><p>In no time at all, the face is forced to open his mouth wide for a gasping breath, and Jon slips the ring back into place. </p><p>It slots in with a satisfying <em>click</em>, and Jon strikes the knocker against the door. </p><p>The door swings open as the face grumbles, but honestly Jon doesn’t even feel a little bit apologetic for it. </p><p>He passes through first, then Daisy bumps past him to regain the lead. Helen <span class="pwa-mark decorator">boops</span> the nose of the face as they pass, and closes the door behind them. </p><p>The other side of the door opens out into a forest — the paved path gone, and looping away into a well trodden dirt trail. Trees grow wild and tangled, and any trace of the castle and the sun are eliminated by the thick vegetation. </p><p>A distant howl rings through the trees, and Daisy freezes. Her ears go flat back on her head, and the growl rises low and threatening in her throat. </p><p>“Montauk…” she snarls, and takes off at a dash through the underbrush. </p><p>“Wait!” Jon shouts. He doesn’t even try to follow, because she’s a flash of raised hackles and a glint of fangs in the dappled light before she’s completely gone. </p><p>He turns to Helen, about to ask her what she thinks they should do, only to find that the strange woman and the door they just passed through gone as well. </p><p>He spins around, again and again, nearly losing track of which direction he even came from, but completely alone in the middle of a forest with no castle to angle himself towards. </p><p>“Well, <em>shit</em>,” he says. </p><p>Allowing himself only a moment to be angry about his current situation, Jon picks a direction and starts walking. </p><hr/><p>Gerry appears right in Melanie’s path. “What are you doing?” he asks. </p><p>She jumps, unable to have heard his arrival. The knife is in her hand in an instant, and she advances a step to lunge, but he doesn’t have time for this. </p><p>With a simple gesture, their positions switch and her knife collapses like a prop toy as she stabs at the wall where he had been. </p><p>“Stand still and let me skewer you,” the woman growls. </p><p>“You are going to have to give me a much better pitch than that.” He tries to contain his annoyance, but things aren’t going the way that he wants or needs them to. “Why did you leave Jon?” </p><p>“He was annoying me.” </p><p>Gerry snorts. “I suppose I underestimated how petty you can be.” </p><p>“You’ve forgotten a lot since I’m no longer the focus of your stupid game.” She sneers, and there is so much wolf in that gesture that he’s honestly surprised that the Hunt hasn’t tried to claim her. But she’s always worked alone, and that’s why the Slaughter lists her on their roster of agents. </p><p>Even if she doesn’t know it. The strings that glimmer when he tilts his head <em>just so</em> proves it enough. </p><p>That’s how her story is being written after the showdown in the city against his guards. After losing Georgie. </p><p>“We agreed that you’ll be pardoned <em>only if</em> you ensure that Jon doesn’t make it the castle gates. And the best way you can do that is by taking him back to the beginning.”</p><p>“No, I think you’ll find that <em>you told me</em> to do that, and I said something along the lines of <em>no thank you, Your Majesty</em>.” </p><p>She actually said <em>fuck you, you monster</em>, but he doesn’t need to clarify that. </p><p>Gerry inhales deeply, trying to maintain a level of civility that he doesn’t really feel. “I’m trying to give you the chance to undo what happened a year ago. I’m offering you Georgie and a way out of here.” </p><p>“Why, so you can keep them trapped here instead?” She gestures wildly, and Gerry wonders if she is trying to slash at him with the knife that no longer works. “I’m not <em>that </em>petty.” And then her posture droops and she looks the most defeated that she’s been since that time in the goblin city a year ago when she lost. “I know Georgie would understand why I can’t let us have the happy ending.” </p><p>He doesn’t know how to respond. He’s angry — he’s <em>incredibly angry</em> and he doesn’t know why. <em>Why can’t you take this gift that I’m giving you?</em> he wants to ask. He wants to shake her by the shoulders and tell her that she can get out of here if only she can be a little selfish. </p><p>Because he needs Martin if he wants this to work. And he needs Jon to fail if he wants this to work. </p><p>Or at least he thinks he does. </p><p>The worst thing is, is that he is angry and uncertain and still willing to bet it all on the small possibility that it will work out. </p><p>“Besides,” Melanie says, forcing some cheer back into her voice that is laced with sarcasm. “He has Helen and Daisy. Will be <em>awfully</em> hard for me to get him to go in the wrong direction with those two!” </p><p>“Fuck,” he swears, pacing in a frustrated line. “For fuck’s sake, Melanie! Are you this determined to ruin everything?” </p><p>“For me or for you? Because <em>excuse me</em> for not wanting things to go in your favor!” </p><p>“For all of us!” he shouts. “I can fix it, if only you work with me!” </p><p>This gets her to pause, and the act that she always has, the knife of her personality always sharpened and ready, slips away into hesitation. “You serious?” </p><p>“Yes!” A beat, then, because he’s trying to work with her, “I think so.” </p><p>She doesn’t shift. Not a single twitch of a finger. Statue still. “I am going to need a lot more than <em>I think so</em> to throw them under the bus. As annoying as I find Jon, he’s a sop for that Martin and ugh, I don’t want to be the one to ruin that.” </p><p>He wants to say that he doesn’t want to either, and if it really <em>is</em> that way, the way that they both hope it is, then that should be enough. “As certain as I’ll ever be, Melanie.” </p><p>Her shoulders droop. “I hate you so much.” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“Like, really, I want you to drop into the Bog of Eternal Stench.” </p><p>“That isn’t a thing here.” </p><p>“I will <em>make one</em> so I can <em>throw you into it</em>.” </p><p>He heaves a sigh. “Sure.” </p><p>Eventually, the last of her defenses drop. “What do I have to do? Like I said, he’s got Helen and Daisy.” </p><p>“You’ll have help,” Gerry says, and waves a hand to call someone over. </p><p>Stepping out from between the rocks —stepping out from between nothing, actually, but with a level of dramatics that are sadly lost on Melanie — a woman with long, pin-straight hair and a practiced smile approaches. “Hello,” she says, and Melanie tenses all over again at the sound of her voice. “My name is Sasha.” </p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The labyrinth as a whole had been silent — only his footsteps creating a soft cadence against the stone. There were no other living things in the structure until he came across the first pair of doors. </p><p>The forest is a different kind of silences, one that lives in ambience. </p><p>As soon as Daisy disappears into the forest and her headlong dash through the underbrush fades, Jon realizes that, for the first time, there are sounds of other living things. Animals of some kind, disturbed by Daisy’s passage. </p><p>Birdsong, small rodents, and the possibility of something bigger if the footfalls just at the edge of his hearing are any indication. </p><p>Jon keeps on his selected path, wandering in the vague sort of direction he saw Daisy go. He has no idea where that will take him, but perhaps it will eventually lead him back to her. </p><p>Granted, the wolf has absolutely no reason to show him the way to the center of the labyrinth, and clearly has her own agenda to work out. If she’s going to be taking off at every opportunity to chase down the other two guards, then she’s not going to be of much use to him. </p><p>So he wanders, and hopes that eventually he’ll find <em>something</em> that indicates he’s on the right path. </p><p>Like a sign in the shape of an arrow, saying <em>Goblin Castle: 5km</em>. That would be ideal, and a reasonable final stretch. </p><p>Unfortunately, no matter how far he walks, there are no helpful signs, and the only thing he <em>does</em> find is footprints in the mud on the trail before him. </p><p>The marks are vaguely humanoid, though there is a bird-like quality to the impression. Jon doesn’t study one long enough to figure out just <em>why</em> they seem bird-like, because he thinks that the likelihood of him losing his nerve or his mind will increase the more thought he gives to it. </p><p>Eventually, more feet join the pair he was unwillingly following, some more humanoid, some more bird-like. Piling together, getting deeper, like the owners of those feet were all pouring onto this path from different parts of the forest. </p><p>And then he realizes that he hears voices. </p><p>There is raucous laughter and some attempts at singing that quickly dissolve into more laughter or some sort of jeering-cheering combo. </p><p>Uncertain how he wants to proceed, Jon lingers in the middle of the path. He could keep going, towards the hint of firelight that he sees just ahead, or he could turn around and backtrack until he finds another path to follow. </p><p>Weighing the time it would take, and just how tired his feet really are, Jon doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps until there is a deliberate stomp into the space right next to him, and a hand lands on his shoulder with a warm, too-friendly weight.</p><p>He jerks in surprise, but the woman at his side doesn’t relinquish her grip on him. Instead, she gives him a grin that is just too bright to be comfortable. </p><p>“What’s this?” she chimes in a sing-song voice. “A lost little soul in the forest?” </p><p>Jon wonders if she’s asking him, but then he realizes that the voices further in have gone silent. Instead, they radiate around him as faces appear between the foliage and shadows. “I need—” he starts, but the woman places a finger to his lips and his voice withers. </p><p>“We know who you are. You’re the Goblin King’s newest plaything.” </p><p>He resents that remark with every fiber of his being — though it probably bothers him so much because it’s somewhat true. “I need to get to the castle at the center of the labyrinth,” he tries again, and she lets him get the sentence out. “Can you show me the way?” </p><p>She shifts her finger from his lips to hers, tapping at them in thought as the figures surrounding them rumble with laughter. “Can we show you the way…? Hmm…” </p><p>“If not, I’ll just be going—” Jon turns to leave, not even caring which direction he heads in, when a figure half-hidden behind a tree sends a whip of fire out to block his path. The tip of it touches down just shy of Jon’s sneakers, and he yelps as he stumbles back a few paces. </p><p>The woman watches him go with that bright grin, and the expression only broadens as the figures forming the circle close in to push Jon back towards the center. “Where do you think you’re going so fast?” </p><p>“I don’t… want to be a bother,” Jon tries, attempting to duck free of the hand against his back keeping him facing in towards the woman. “You could just say you don’t know how to get there. I don’t care.” </p><p>She tuts and paces in a slow loop around the circle. Feeling more and more like a caged animal, Jon keeps pace across from her. “The Goblin King has taken a special interest in you,” she says, and the figures surrounding them do the jeering-cheering combo. </p><p>“Not with me. He’s taken someone dear to me, and it’s my job to get him back.” Jon knows that he doesn’t owe these people any explanation, but he doesn’t like the thought of the Goblin King taking an interest in <em>him</em>. Because that would mean that Martin is the collateral, and that he’s been dragged into this to be a prize. </p><p>“<em>Not with him</em>,” the woman mocks, and the edges of her start to blur and distort as if in a heat haze. “He doesn’t think that the Goblin King has any interest in <em>him</em>.” </p><p>The laughter rises up like a wave, and it crests down over him in an explosion of heat so strong that it forces him down to his knees. </p><p>Hands from the shadows and the trees are pulling him back to his feet, and their touch is like melted wax, burning points into his shoulders and biceps through his sweater. </p><p>“Did you know that he put a target on your back?” one of the voices chimes, and a hand slaps him square between the shoulders with the force and heat of an iron. </p><p>“A reward to whoever can keep you in one place long enough for him to claim you,” another says, and laughter fills the space between the trees. </p><p>Jon’s mouth is dry as cotton and his throat burns with the desert heat surrounding him. It’s hard to swallow, and impossible to form words. He can feel his lips chapping, his skin threatening to blister, the longer that he stays here caught in their trap. </p><p>The original woman, who appears to be the leader, grasps one of his hands between both of hers and he’s too weak to pull away. “To be perfectly honest,” she says with all the sweetness of a hornet. “To <em>hell</em> with his pay-out. I think we would much rather burn you to a crisp right now.”</p><p>He licks his lips, though it doesn’t do any good, and manages to rasp out, “I would like to <em>not</em> be burned to a crisp, if we’re taking opinions—Ahh!” </p><p>Her too-bright, too-sharp smile melts into something far more dangerous as she squeezes his hand. “We’re not!” </p><p>His brain fires off alerts and panicked signals too fast for his pain receptors to even keep up. His stomach churns, and he can smell his burning skin, and it blisters and blackens and <em>broils </em>beneath her touch until he thinks he might black out. </p><p>Relief comes so fast that Jon wonders if he did actually fall unconscious. </p><p>There is an arm around his shoulders to help keep him upright, and a warmth that is a comfort instead of a stranglehold over all of his senses. </p><p>For one, delirious second, Jon thinks that it’s Martin — and that this whole charade is done, and they can go home, and this will all be behind them. </p><p>But then he tilts his head up and sees the hard-set lines of the Goblin King’s jaw as he glares at the woman cowering before him. </p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Jude Perry,” the Goblin King says, with all the venom of a snake. “Just what do you think you are doing?” </p><p>The woman’s lips twitch and try for a smile, but there is genuine fear clinging to her as she backs away. “Your Majesty. A pleasure, as always—” </p><p>“I thought I made it clear that you weren’t to harm him.” The Goblin King’s grip tightens around Jon’s shoulder, and Jon hadn’t even realized he had started to sag until he was steadied on his feet. </p><p>“Just a little joke,” she says, and makes a vague sort of wave of her hand that causes the heat of the air jump several degrees. “You know, a few sick burns between friends.” </p><p>There’s a smattering of giggles and stifled laughter from the others around them still hiding within the trees. </p><p>A glare from the Goblin King sends them into frantic shushing and rustling of leaves. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you were doing? That something would happen in my domain without my knowing?” </p><p>Jude gives a surprisingly flippant shrug despite the way that she is trying to not look terrified. “Took you long enough to show up.” </p><p>The Goblin King raises a hand, and there’s just a second where the fear causes Jude’s eyes to widen like saucers — then, with another gesture, the Goblin King teleports them away just as a scream erupts from her mouth. </p><p>In the blink of an eye, they’re standing in a different part of the forest. The Goblin King has Jon’s injured hand held carefully between both of his own, and he stares down at it with a pinched mouth and furrowed brow. </p><p>It still hurts, the sharp throb radiating up his entire arm and rattling around between his ribs. Jon wavers, but remains standing. He watches the Goblin King, uncertain, confused, and waits. </p><p>When the Goblin King places the flat of his palm over Jon’s, Jon hisses in pain and tries to draw back, but the grip around his wrist, though delicate, keeps him there. </p><p>It’s a gradual change, the same way the pain was to start. It dulls, no longer feeling like a knife trying to hack off his arm. If he squints, Jon thinks he can see a small, glowing bead in the space between where their palms not quite touch. </p><p>And then the pain is… well, not <em>gone</em>, but more like a distant memory. The scar on his hand is shiny and new, but he can flex his hand and the residual pain eases up with each passing second. </p><p>Jon continues to watch the Goblin King, as the furrow in his brow deepens, as he presses the tips of three fingers to the pulse point on Jon’s wrist before letting them ghost over the heel of his palm and across the lines which might be completely burned off. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” the Goblin King says, and it’s not an apology in the way that Jon thinks royalty would apologize. It feels genuine, when the king continues to say, “I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen.” </p><p>Before Jon can think of something to say, or even think to draw his hand away, he blinks and the scene changes and he’s alone. </p><p>Well, almost alone. </p><p>Melanie and another woman are standing there, as if waiting for him. Melanie has her arms crossed over her chest and frowns like she could cut someone with that expression. </p><p>The other woman leans against a boulder — looking like she’s using it for support, but casual. Like she doesn’t <em>want</em> to look like she needs the rock to keep her upright. </p><p>She smiles as soon as her gaze focuses on him, and she gives Melanie a gentle nudge in the side to get her attention. </p><p>“What…” Jon starts, staring down at his hand. It tingles, but he’s not too sure if it’s because of the burn or because of the Goblin King’s touch. “What just happened?” </p><p>Melanie huffs, and rolls her eyes. “He saved your ass for some unknown reason. Honestly, if he’d just let me stab you, this would be over so much quicker.” </p><p>“She doesn’t mean that,” the other woman says, but Melanie’s answering frown is almost as potent as her glares. “Well, maybe a little.” </p><p>His head is still having an incredibly hard time keeping up with everything, thoughts jumbled from the searing agony that is now just <em>gone</em>, the fact that the Goblin King <em>saved </em>him, and this stranger seemingly hanging out with Melanie as if they were waiting for him. “I’m sorry, who are you?” </p><p>“Oh!” The woman’s hands flutter up to her mouth, and an embarrassed flush spreads across her wan cheeks. “How rude of me. I’m Sasha.” When she stands upright, she wavers just a bit in her spot before reaching out to shake his hand. </p><p>Jon hesitates before extending his right hand — wondering if the pain really is gone, or if it will come back when someone other than the Goblin King touches it. </p><p>But her hand is cool and soft against his, the handshake polite if not a little weak. </p><p>Melanie waves her hand airily. “Right, now that’s out of the way, let’s go.” </p><p>“Go <em>where</em>?” Jon asks, skeptical. “Last I remember, which wasn’t all that long ago, you left our little group.” </p><p>“Yeah, and I am pissed at you. But that doesn’t change the fact that c’mon, we’re going.” </p><p>He points at the castle, which is almost a relief to be able to see again after his trip through the forest. He can’t tell if it’s closer or further than when he went in. “Then we’re headed that way.” </p><p>She makes another airy wave, with both hands this time, and a grunt of frustration. “No, we’re taking you back to the entrance. Where you can be safe and away from all of this.” </p><p>“You can’t take me back to the beginning — not when I’m so close!” </p><p>Her bark of laughter rings out like a shot in the silence of the early-evening labyrinth. “Sure, close to being <em>dead</em> several times over. Face it, Jon: You’re fucked the longer you stay here. You would have been s-o-l if the king hadn’t swept in and saved you like that.” </p><p>“How do you know that anyway? It just happened.” </p><p>“Because the king has some kind of ‘getting into shit’ radar that pings every time you are in trouble, I don’t know!” Another gesture, like she’s trying to imitate the hand movements the Goblin King uses whenever he casts a spell. </p><p>Jon scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand, trying to rub away the ever-mounting frustration. A groan tumbles out of his mouth as he tries to sort through his exhausted thoughts. “No, I mean… Why were you with him? Were you talking about having to take me back to the beginning?” </p><p>“Not everything is about you, Jon,” she sneers. “Unless you’ve forgotten the reason why I punched you not too long ago, I do have a life here that doesn’t surround you. I have been here for a year. The Goblin King and I have our own issues that don’t boil down to you.” </p><p>“And yet he brought me here to where you were waiting anyway.” </p><p>For a moment, Melanie looks as if she might punch him again, but Sasha moves to stand between them with her hands outstretched — one placed gently on Melanie’s shoulder, and the other hovering before Jon. </p><p>“Peace, please?” she asks, her smile carrying on her tone for Melanie’s sake. “Melanie, you don’t always have to do what he says.” </p><p>“What—” Jon starts, but then he reads the expression on Melanie’s face as it melts from anger to frustration to something that might be regret before he realizes that Sasha means the Goblin King. </p><p>The fight leaks out of her, and she knuckles the spot between her eyes as she sighs. “Fine… Fine! But the next time this dumbass gets into any trouble, I will not be there to bail him out!” </p><p>“Wouldn’t expect you to be,” Jon grumbles. </p><p>Sasha squeezes Melanie’s shoulder before reaching out to pat Jon. “It will all work out.” she says simply. “I know someone that can help us.” She heads off into the labyrinth and Jon turns to follow. </p><p>There’s a beat before Melanie’s shuffling steps ring out behind them as she joins in.</p><hr/><p>Gerry worries his thumb nail between his teeth, and wonders if he should have done something more to Jude for that stunt she pulled. </p><p>He warned his subjects time and again not to directly interfere with those trying to make their way through the labyrinth. They’re allowed to change the layout of the place, sure, putting turns when there normally aren’t any, change where doors go, or even trap a wanderer in a loop for a few days. </p><p>But to interfere with them directly — to injure them in such a way — has always been off-limits. </p><p>Gerry wonders how many others have thought about doing the same thing. There were many more trapped in the labyrinth during his mother’s time. He knew that she made a sport of it. </p><p>Since he took the throne, there have only been two: Melanie, and Jon. </p><p>What is it about <em>Jon</em> that made Jude so willing to break his rules? Is it only due to the extended period since the last victim? </p><p>And it only means that Jude was the first to be brave enough to step over that line. Who knows how many are queued up for their own chance to sink their claws into Jon.</p><p>Frustrated, Gerry runs through a mental list of the powers at play, wondering just where he should focus next. </p><p>He wanders along the upper walkway that looks down over his grand hall, half in the hopes that he’ll run into Martin, and half dreading the possibility. He knows that this is where Martin has taken to going on walks, picking a different window to stare out of when he makes his way to this level. </p><p>Eventually, he turns and heads towards the staircase, ascending to the level with the personal rooms for his guests. There aren’t many in use — only Georgie and Martin. </p><p>For a moment, he wonders if he should speak to Georgie. To tell her what he offered Melanie to see if she would be any wiser in taking the deal. </p><p>He dismisses the idea almost as soon as he has it</p><p>It’s been an entire year. He knows her well enough by know to know that she would politely turn down the offer. </p><p>So Gerry moves further down the hall to where Martin’s door resides at the end, and he knocks. </p><p>There’s a pause, a shuffle, then he’s staring up (staring <em>up</em> is a new sensation, and he still hasn’t worked out how it makes him feel) into Martin’s eyes. “Did I disturb you?” he asks automatically, noticing the mussed quality of Martin’s hair and wondering if the other man was asleep. </p><p>“No, not really. I was just trying to write.” He shifts his weight to one hip and makes a half-hearted attempt to smooth down his hair when he notices Gerry’s attention on it. “Something the matter?” </p><p>“No,” Gerry says, then says, “Well, not really.” </p><p>Martin gives the hint of a frown, then steps aside and waves a hand to invite Gerry in. “Do you… want to talk?” </p><p>It’s silly, Gerry thinks, as he stares at the distance between where he stands and the interior of Martin’s room. It’s silly how big a gap that suddenly seems. “I just have a question.” He says this instead of figuring out if he should accept the invitation or not. “Is Jon <em>always</em> so ridiculously stubborn?” </p><p>There’s a moment where Martin stares at him in stunned silence before his face breaks into a soft, brilliant smile and his shoulders shake with laughter. “Oh, you have no idea.” The expression is quickly tempered, though. “Why do you ask?” </p><p>Putting two and two together — knowing that it means Gerry has been to see Jon when he still has been deprived of that one grace. </p><p>When Gerry fails to answer, Martin returns to the doorway. “What happened to him?” </p><p>“He’s fine,” Gerry says automatically. Then, after a pause, he has to add, “Now. He’s fine now.” </p><p>The color drains from Martin’s face, and he has to use the doorframe to steady himself. Gerry resists the urge to reach for him. Martin opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, then swallows thickly and runs a hand over his hair. The movement undoes his attempts at tidying it.</p><p>“A few people in the labyrinth haven’t… taken too kindly to rules that I have put in place, especially ones regarding Jon.” This is the easiest explanation to give, without having to drag Martin into the politics of it all. </p><p>“But he’s okay?” </p><p>“I intervened before it got too out of hand. He’s fine.” Gerry thinks about the heat in the clearing, the way that Jude could char the air in their lungs if she so desired. It came down to speed at that point, and the only reason he got away with it was because she didn’t expect him to retaliate or interfere. “I left him with… someone he trusts.” </p><p>Martin’s brow furrows, the concern not completely gone but melting into confusion. “Jon has a hard time trusting anyone.” </p><p>For a moment, Gerry wonders if he should tell Martin since he seems close with Georgie, but it would give away too much too soon. </p><p>If Martin notices the hesitation, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, straightening back upright, he fiddles with the cuff of his sweater sleeve. “Can I see him?” </p><p>He should have expected this request. He should have anticipated it and come up with a reason why or why not, but instead he’s caught off-guard and left staring up at Martin with no immediate answer. </p><p>And, instead of something intelligent — or vague or kingly or anything else he <em>should</em> say — Gerry asks, “Do you not trust me?” </p><p>“It’s not that,” Martin answers. “It’s that he’s my husband and I don’t even know how long it’s been since I’ve seen him last and I’m <em>worried</em> about him.” Martin drops his gaze, staring instead at their feet. “Just like you had shown him to me before. I understand I can’t talk to him, or see him in person like you can.” </p><p>There’s a barb in that sentence, and Gerry winces despite himself. “Of course… I apologize.” <em>I should have taken that into consideration</em> sounds like a ridiculous thing to add, so he swallows it down. </p><p>The correct reaction should be <em>I can’t let you see him. I shouldn’t even be here talking to you about him.</em> He’s interfering too much.</p><p>He should have left Jon there in the forest with the Desolation. He should have remained distant from Martin. </p><p>There are a lot of things he should have done, regardless of the outcome that he wants. </p><p>But instead he extends a hand, the crystal ball in his palm, and offers it up to Martin. </p><p>He stares at the ring on Martin’s finger as the other man carefully takes the offered gift and peers into it. </p><p><em>This is all one big mistake</em>. </p><p>Six days left, and then it will be over. </p><p>One way or another, it will be over. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha is silent as she leads the way around the edge of the forest. She answers Jon’s questions as best she can, but it seems that walking and talking takes too much energy from her and she will either have to stop to catch her breath or lapse into silence. </p><p>Melanie, bringing up the rear, stubbornly refuses to say anything. </p><p>Jon doesn’t know how to ask Sasha is she’s alright, because he doesn’t want to stop, but he doesn’t want to be the cause of her health deteriorating. But he’s running out of time, and the sky is quickly approaching dark, so he lets her go at her pace and eventually stops finding things to try and talk about. </p><p>What he does learn is that she’s from the city itself, and she is taking them to some friends who will be able to help. No clarification beyond that. </p><p>So he remains wary, running his thumb over the new scar on his hand. </p><p>Eventually they turn right, the castle now looming behind them, and Jon can’t help the frequent anxious glances over his shoulder. </p><p>“We’re almost there,” Sasha says and gives him a reassuring smile and a wink. “Sometimes the way forward is also the way back.” </p><p>Before Jon can figure out how that might even possibly make sense in this situation, the sounds of shouting and unoiled-hinge laughter reaches his ears. </p><p>The smile on Sasha’s lips wavers, thins, then settles as she shakes her head. “Still up to his old tricks,” she murmurs. “Come on, we’re going to want to hurry.” </p><p>The path opens up into a landing of sorts before dropping away into a deep canyon. In front of them is a rickety foot bridge, a bright yellow door about three feet above head height, and a man with a sword trying and failing to score a hit on the door. </p><p>“Get back here, you fiend!” he shouts, jumping and flailing the weapon. “I will not be mocked!” </p><p>“You’re doing an <em>excellent </em>job of that on your own,” Helen says delightedly as she steps out from behind a tree. </p><p>The man looks from the door, to her, then spots Jon and the others approaching through the tree line. Anger and frustration wars for top place on his expression, then he freezes and his eyes widen in surprise. </p><p>But before he can get the chance to react further, a mottled pale shape launches out of the forest a little beyond where Jon and the others are. </p><p>Daisy snarls as she charges into this other man, and he yelps and drops the sword as he lifts his hands to defend himself. The force of her bowls them over, and his already precarious position on the lip of the bridge is compromised as they teeter back to the ledge of the chasm. </p><p>Jon’s heart leaps into his throat, choking back any shout that he might have been able to manage. At his side, Sasha sucks in a sharp breath and her hands lift to her mouth as they watch the pair disappear from sight. </p><p>With a faint but incredibly disappointed sound, Helen takes a step and folds out of sight — only to reappear an instant later on the other side with Daisy and the stranger tumbling out of a yellow door and onto solid ground. </p><p>With an indistinct argument and another shout, the stranger pulls himself free of the jumble he landed in with Daisy and hauls himself to the edge of the bridge. “Sasha?” he calls, and Jon recognizes the emotion in the way his voice breaks on her name. “Is that really you?” </p><p>There’s a beat, and then she lowers her hands and presses them to her chest. “Hello, Tim,” she says, voice so soft that it barely carries across the distance between them. </p><p>Tim practically sags with visible relief. He uses his grip on the bridge support to propel himself a few steps across, then hesitates. Then he squares his shoulders and finally turns his focus to Jon and Melanie as they approach the bridge on their end of the chasm. “None may cross this bridge.” </p><p>“Oh, come on Tim,” Sasha says as she scoops up the abandoned sword. She tests the weight of it, and Jon is surprised to find the skill with which she gives it a spin. She had seemed barely able to stand upright by the end of their journey to the bridge, yet the the strength in her stance now doesn’t seem to be forced in any way. “I can vouch for them. Surely that counts for something?” </p><p>A weak, half-hearted laugh tumbles out of Tim and he shakes his head. “No, you know that. I’ve made a vow that none may cross, and that includes you.” </p><p>“They made it across,” Jon says, gesturing to where Helen stands with a long-fingered hand on Daisy’s head to keep the wolf from charging again. </p><p>Tim glances at them over his shoulder, then glares at Jon for pointing that out. “They don’t have permission to be over here.” He makes as if to grab for his sword then realizes that it’s not at his belt, and glares anew. “They’ll be dealt with shortly.” </p><p>It sounds like an incredibly empty threat to Jon, especially with Helen involved, but he doesn’t comment on it. </p><p>“Alright,” Melanie says, her tone suggesting that maybe a dagger might solve this problem. “Then how do we get across?” </p><p>“None may cross without my permission!” Tim repeats, adding as much gallantry to his words as he can — as if by saying it louder and with more pomp, it will seem more impressive than a lone man without a sword on a rickey bridge over a chasm. </p><p>Jon glances between his two companions before asking, “Then… may we have your permission?”</p><p>Melanie snorts. </p><p>Tim stares, dumbfounded, then also glances around as if there is someone else that can answer this question on his behalf. “Well… yes?” </p><p>A soft laugh echoes from Sasha as she steps onto the bridge first. “Always so loyal,” she says when she comes to a stop toe to toe with him. </p><p>For a moment, Jon wonders if something else is going to happen. In one of Martin’s stories, there would be a beat here, where something momentous transpires. </p><p>Sasha offers up the hilt of the sword to Tim. “Here.” </p><p>He takes it, and looks like he wants to say something else, but she walks past him to reach the other end of the chasm safely. Tim sheathes his sword, glares pointedly at Melanie and Jon for good measure, and follows after her. </p><p>Jon starts across the bridge next, carefully picking his way across the bedraggled boards despite the way that Tim seems to stomp across it. He glances back at Melanie, who stands with her hands on the guide ropes and a look like she would much rather be anywhere else than attempting to cross this bridge blind. </p><p>“I’ll help!” Helen says gleefully, and a door appears right before Melanie. The bridge sways dangerously at a sudden shift in weight, and Jon clings to the ropes, praying that nothing breaks while he’s still standing on it. </p><p>Melanie and Helen reappear on the opposite side, and soon only Jon is left to slowly make his way. </p><p>“Sure…” he grumbles, stepping wide over a board that looks about ready to give up. “Help everyone else. Not like I’m on a deadline here.” </p><p>“Stop grumbling and hurry up,” Melanie calls, and Helen snickers in amusement. </p><p>“The bridge is fine!” Tim says. “Sturdy as anything!” </p><p>“I think your definition of sturdy differs from the common lexicon <em>vastly</em>.” Jon hops the remaining distance, and stumbles until Sasha catches his arm to steady him. “Or perhaps the definition just varies wildly from what it means where I’m from.” </p><p>The bridge doesn’t make a dramatic point by crumbling to dust the moment he’s finished crossing, which on one hand is barely reassuring, and on the other somewhat annoys Jon more than it would have if it actually broke. </p><p>Sasha moves to Tim’s side, then waves a hand at Jon. “Tim, please meet Jon. He’s trying to journey to the city at the center of the labyrinth.” </p><p>Jon wonders just when she found that out — maybe Melanie told her, because he’s still not certain how Sasha fits into this whole scenario. Or perhaps she just put the facts together when he insisted on heading back towards the castle instead of the entrance.</p><p>Tim stands before him with arms crossed over his chest, sizing Jon up before grinning broadly and slapping him on the upper arm. “Nice to meet you.” </p><p>He grunts and stumbles under the friendly pat. “Yes… Pleasure.” </p><p>“I thought he might be able to help you and Basira in the process. If… that hasn’t changed.” Sasha’s smile is watery, and she fusses with her hair. </p><p>Tim’s attention is fully on her, and Jon is left standing there awkwardly, not really sure if he should leave to let them have this conversation in private or not since it still technically involves him. “Sash… it’s been a year.” </p><p>Again, a year. Jon wonders how closely it coincides to Melanie’s arrival to this place, or to her loss at the hands of the Goblin King’s guards. And, more importantly, just <em>what</em> Sasha has to do with this. </p><p>She takes his hand as he reaches for her, and squeezes it between her own. “I know. And I’ll try to explain it all, but I’m <em>very </em>tired. Can we head to the base before I explain?” </p><p>Tim looks like he wants to argue, then he looks to Jon as if for an explanation that Jon doesn’t have (and has also been wondering). Then he looks up at the sky and gives a heavy sigh. “Yeah… Let me take you to Basira.”</p><hr/><p>The time of this place doesn’t make any sense. </p><p>It’s something that Martin has simply accepted as being a thing, though he hasn’t quite come to terms with it. He gets tired and he gets hungry, so he sleeps and he eats, but only now the sky is getting dark for the first time in his stay. </p><p>There is a clock now in the hall, set into the wall behind Gerry’s throne. It is inching towards 5:00, but seeing as it’s out of 13:00, Martin isn’t quite certain just what it means. </p><p>He’s staring at it in contemplation when Gerry finds him. </p><p>“I’m sure I can find you more interesting pieces of art to consider,” the Goblin King says lightly as he comes to stand next to Martin. </p><p>“Well, it wasn’t here at first. And now it is. I’m just curious as to what it means.” Martin doesn’t look away from the hands of the clock, even though he can feel Gerry’s attention on him. </p><p>After a slight pause, Gerry says, “It’s how much time is left.” </p><p>“Up or down?” </p><p>“Five days remaining,” comes the clarification, and when Martin turns sharply to look at him, it’s Gerry’s turn to study the clock. </p><p>“I’ve been here for <em>eight days</em>?” Martin asks, trying to think of how much he’s slept, or better yet, how much Jon has slept. If he’s slept at all. </p><p>“Not… quite…” Gerry draws out the two words awkwardly, and the corners of his mouth pinch as he tries to resist the urge to frown. </p><p>Martin hesitates before reaching out and letting his fingers graze Gerry’s elbow. “What do you mean by <em>not quite</em>?” </p><p>The Goblin King wafts uncertainly before trying to shrug it off. “I might have lost my temper with him and fast forwarded it through two days.” </p><p>Martin wants to be annoyed. Truly, he does, because things are already difficult for Jon. But he snorts out a laugh, and lifts a hand to try and disguise another. </p><p>When Gerry finally returns his glance, there is confusion and guilt there in equal measures. “What’s funny?” </p><p>“Just… Jon,” Martin says, unable to really explain it any better than that. “On a time limit, with so much at stake, and pissing off the man with the power to make his life hell.” </p><p>There’s a flicker of a smile on Gerry’s face, there and gone again as he looks away. “I don’t <em>want</em> to make it difficult for him.” </p><p>Martin is left studying his profile. The first question, on the tip of his tongue, is <em>then why do this at all?</em> </p><p>Instead, he asks, “Why is Georgie here?” </p><p>Gerry turns to face him full on this time. “Because Melanie lost the challenge. Because she called for me. Because she hasn’t left. What sort of answer are you looking to get from me that you can’t get from her?” </p><p>“Because it doesn’t make sense.” Martin ruffles his hair, fusses with the collar of his shirt, wants to reach for the notebook sticking out of his pocket to point out where he’s attempted to outline how that story goes and keeps coming up to the same question: Why is Georgie here? “You could have sent her back.” </p><p>“Is that what you think will happen to you if Jon does not make it?” </p><p>“No,” Martin answers immediately, then pauses to think about it. “I wouldn’t leave if Jon was still here, but I also wouldn’t just sit on my hands for a year.” </p><p>“And you think Georgie has been enjoying her stay?” </p><p>“I didn’t say it would be enjoyable.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them, and Gerry pulls back as if slapped. “That’s not what I meant.” </p><p>The Goblin King’s voice is thin when he asks, “Then what did you mean?” </p><p>What did he mean? </p><p>“I’d try to get Jon back. I’d try to find out what’s stopping me from just joining him in the Goblin city. But what I’m really trying to figure out right now is why you haven’t let her go.” </p><p>The black eyes study him for a long moment. “Melanie didn’t—” </p><p>“Melanie didn’t complete your challenge, I understand that. But, Gerry… I can tell that keeping her here is bothering you.” It’s a gamble to say, of course, because Martin hasn’t actually been in the room with them at the same time for any extended period. If he’s with one when the other arrives, one of them will end up leaving. It’s like they can’t stand to be in each other’s presence. </p><p>The King with his guilt, the victim with her pity. </p><p>That’s how Martin would write it. </p><p>Georgie knows something that neither of them are telling Martin, and she pities Gerry for that secret being kept. </p><p>“Martin,” Gerry says on a sigh, but he cuts himself off as Martin takes his hand. His eyes go wide, and he looks down to where Martin gently holds his hand. </p><p>“Let her go,” Martin says, his voice soft and pleading. “You have me, and you have Jon — for whatever we’re worth in this thing you won’t tell me.” </p><p>The Goblin King’s expression is pained, and he leans into the distance between them almost unwillingly. “I can’t. I… When this is over, I’ll explain. But I can’t.” </p><p>With a deep breath, Martin pulls his hand away and shoves them into his pockets. “Alright…” He bites the inside of his cheek and closes his eyes. “Alright.” </p><p>“Martin—” </p><p>“Ask me to trust you.” </p><p>The space between them feels like a physical thing now, one that Martin feels against his chest like a hand forcing him back. </p><p>When he opens his eyes again, Gerry is still staring up at him with those impossibly black eyes, like he’s trying to read the story in Martin’s expression and failing. “What?” </p><p>“You asked me before if I trusted you. So <em>ask</em> me to trust you, and I will,” Martin confesses. </p><p>Gerry closes the distance between them with a step, and lifts the hand that Martin held up to Martin’s cheek. “I would not ask that of you when I have not given you a reason to trust me,” he says, soft into the remaining space. “I understand that I am not trustworthy.” </p><p>Martin opens his mouth to speak, to argue back, but Gerry’s thumb presses down over his lips and his voice dies in his throat. </p><p>“I ask for patience, but I will not ask for trust. This is not one of your stories, Martin, so do not look for grace where there is none to give.” </p><p>He’s frozen beneath the black gaze, caught and pinned and unable to look away. </p><p>It’s only when he thinks the pressure on his chest might either shove him away or draw him in closer, that Martin blinks and when he opens his eyes again, Gerry is gone, and he is alone in the throne room as the clock strikes five. </p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ‘base’ is nothing more than a glorified camp. There are a few tents, a large cooking fire, and several people milling about. </p><p>It is, as it turns out, the base of operations for a rebel operation. </p><p>At least, this is how Tim explains it as he leads them to camp (Jon can’t think of it as a base once he’s sees it, because it’s ready to be packed up and moved at a moment’s notice). They are a small group of people from the Goblin city who have decided that ‘enough is enough!’ and are looking to try and overthrow the king. </p><p>Which seems like an incredibly simple way of approaching a coup, but what does Jon know. He’s just here to make his way through the labyrinth and save Martin. Let everyone else play at politics. </p><p>Basira, the defacto leader of the rebellion, takes one look at the approaching group and says, “No,” without any pretext. </p><p>“Basira, just hear them out,” Tim says, dropping down into the spot around the fire beside her. “Look, they saved Sasha!” </p><p>That’s an entirely questionable leap of logic, but no one argues it and Sasha certainly hasn’t provided a better explanation. </p><p>“It is nice to have you back, Sasha,” Basira eventually concedes. Her expression is nonplussed and she doesn’t seem to really care one way or the other that Sasha is back. “But I am not going to have the former captain of the Goblin King’s guard, an unknown variable, and two of the Goblin King’s playthings hanging out around my camp.” </p><p>“Well—” Tim starts. </p><p>“I am <em>not</em> one of the king’s playthings,” Melanie snarls. </p><p>Helen just holds up one extremely long-fingered hand and gives a delighted wave. “I am extremely unknown,” she agrees. </p><p>“Listen,” Jon says, not yet sitting, just in case they decide to chase him out of the camp. He thinks that if he sits down, he’ll not want to get back up again. “I’m trying to get to the castle at the center of the labyrinth and rescue my husband from the Goblin King.” </p><p>There’s a beat, and Basira just watches him, waiting for the rest of his introduction. </p><p>Jon fails to come up with anything, because he’s not certain he wants to ask for help or if he wants to sleep, or if he just wants to be teleported to the city walls directly. He wants all those things. </p><p>Basira’s gaze hasn’t wavered, only broken by the occasional blink. “That’s nice,” she eventually says. “But you can’t stay.” </p><p>Tim butts in to cover the silence before it becomes too awkward. “Think about it, Basira, we could use him to our advantage.” </p><p>Well, at least he’s not even trying to be subtle about it. </p><p>“I’m sure he could,” she agrees, finally breaking eye contact, “but with him here, the Goblin King will be able to pinpoint our exact location any time he pleases.” </p><p>Daisy sits back on her haunches, taking position at Jon’s side to maintain the distance from the rest of the camp. “To be perfectly honest, the king doesn’t even know you exist.” </p><p>Basira accepts this with a nod. “And it should stay that way.”</p><p>“He won’t know you’re… rebel fighters or whatever if he comes looking,” Jon clarifies, picking up on the implication of Daisy’s comment. Jon also thinks that it is highly unlikely that the Goblin King <em>doesn’t</em> know what’s going on with this group, but he decides against telling that to an already doubtful Basira. </p><p>The Goblin King’s words to Jude seem like an age ago, but Jon smooths his thumb over the burn on his palm and it still feels shiny and raw. </p><p>
  <em>Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you were doing? That something would happen in my domain without my knowing?</em>
</p><p>Either he was lying through his teeth, or he has eyes and ears throughout the labyrinth. </p><p>Basira breathes out slowly through her nose, then rubs the spot between her eyes with her thumb. “Alright. You can stay the night. We’ll point you on your way tomorrow.” </p><p>Jon nearly drops right there out of sheer exhaustion catching up with him, but Daisy leans into his leg and offers her support as he lowers himself onto the ground. “Thank you,” he says. </p><p>He doesn’t know what, exactly, a night indicates. </p><p>Is he still only on day three, or four, after the Goblin King fast-forwarded through two? No one else has really mentioned it, but they’re either natives to the Goblin City or, in Melanie’s case, have been here for an extended period of time. </p><p>Jon sure wishes that the Goblin King gave him a watch or something. </p><p>He looks to Melanie, wondering if he asked about her time trying to make her way to the castle to save Georgie, if she would tell him. </p><p>But the woman takes a seat on the far edge of the fire from him, Helen at her side. And now that Jon is sitting, it is as he expected and he does not want to get back up again. </p><p>Daisy moves to sit near Basira, and Jon watches as the woman leans in to listen to whatever the wolf is telling her. Her face is a mask of concentration, trained and honed for a battlefield. She reminds Jon of a detective on a cop drama he watched a few episodes of. </p><p>There’s a soft sound in the dirt next to him, and Sasha joins him by the fire. She passes over a pile of blankets, her own clutched beneath one arm. “You look like you might pass out at any second,” she teases. “Here. So you don’t fall asleep on the hard ground.” </p><p>“Thank you…” Jon takes the offered gift and does his best attempt at setting up something that looks passably comfortable. “Sasha, can I ask you a question?” </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>He spends a moment trying to arrange his thoughts into a coherent question. In the end, the best thing he can come up with is, “Where did you come from?” </p><p>She regards him with arched eyebrows, mouth a little ‘o’ of surprise. And then it shifts into an amused smile as she asks, “I take you mean not sort of generally where am I from? I don’t think you know the geo-cultural breakdown of this place.” </p><p>“Yeah… I mean just before this. Before I joined you and Melanie.” He fusses with a loose thread on one of the blankets to avoid her gaze. “You look absolutely <em>exhausted</em>. I know chronic fatigue. This is energy that has been drained out of you.” </p><p>The woman hums softly as she fluffs one of her blankets and settles it over her lap. “Until very recently, I used to work in the service of the Goblin King,” she admits. </p><p>“How recently?” </p><p>The corner of her lip ticks up in a smile. “How long have we known each other?” </p><p>“Did he send you to Melanie? Or did you escape on your own?” </p><p>Sasha combs her fingers through her long hair, working out the knots as she watches the fire dance before them. “He sent me to Melanie. He figured since she was supposed to take you back to the beginning, that she would take me as well.” </p><p>This seems curious, considering how little fight Melanie put up when Sasha decided to not head back to the beginning of the labyrinth. </p><p>“You said you’re from the city, though,” Jon says, before glancing over at Tim where he sits at Basira’s side. The two are still talking with Daisy, probably about rebellion things. He wonders, briefly, if there might have been some sort of challenge posed to Tim the same way it was to Jon and Melanie — where he failed to save Sasha from the Goblin King. </p><p>“I am! I’m not like you and Melanie, from a different place altogether.” Hair combed and braided over one shoulder, Sasha sits back and closes her eyes against the warmth of the fire. “I suppose it is supposed to be an exile of sorts. As if I would leave here when I could make a difference.” She peeks at him from out of the corner of one eye. “He should have just kept me in that dungeon of his, in the end, instead of trying for some compassion.” </p><p>Something twists in Jon’s chest, and he aches at Martin’s absence. He fiddles with the wedding band, spinning it around and around as if that will help alleviate some of the tension building between his ribs.</p><p>Sasha reaches out and touches his wrist with the tips of her fingers. “Your husband… I think he said his name was Martin, right?” </p><p>The something in his chest twists harder, like a hand clutching his lungs and squeezing them into paste. “Yes?” </p><p>“He was very confident that you would make it to him.” Her smile is sad, and she gives his wrist a reassuring squeeze. She takes a breath, preparing to say something else, but a sudden cry goes up from somewhere further into the camp and her eyes swivel away. </p><p>Jon almost reaches back for her, to grab her by the shoulders and demand some sort of update on Martin. But then Basira and Tim are on their feet, swords drawn, and Daisy’s growl reverberates through the camp. </p><p>A rather large, silvery thing flops to the dirt between Jon’s feet and his brain has just a second to process that <em>this looks like one of the worms Melanie was attacking at the gate</em> before Basira shouts, “Corruption!” </p><p>The worm wriggles with surprising agility to press up to Jon’s leg and do nothing more annoying than get his pant leg slimy. </p><p>“<span class="pwa-mark decorator">Eugh</span>,” he grumbles, and tries to use his other foot to kick it off, but then the first needle-prick of paint shoots through his shin. </p><p>Sasha hauls him to his feet and helps kick the worm away. “Don’t let them touch you!” she warns, and swats one into the fire. </p><p>The sound of combat and chaos rises up around the small camp, and the flames cause their shadows to dance wildly in time. </p><p>“What in the bloody hell—” Jon starts, clinging to Sasha’s arm for support. </p><p>Across the way, Basira stomps and cuts down the approaching tide of worms with a degree of grace that her foes lack. Tim is gone from her side, but Jon can hear his voice further away. Melanie grips her knife and continues to hit with surprising accuracy. </p><p>Sasha tugs him away, and he follows — having no weapon or even muscles to defend himself with. His leg hurts, and his anxiety at the thought of Martin in a dungeon has not dissipated in the slightest. “It’s the Corruption. One of the forces of the labyrinth that have always been at odds with the king.” </p><p>“Then why are they attacking the camp instead of, I don’t know, the <em>castle</em>?” </p><p>She ducks out of the way as a silvery lump slides off a tree branch and nearly collides with her shoulder. “If you didn’t notice, they’re worms—” </p><p>“There has to be something controlling them. They’re doing this on purpose.” Jon stomps on one and has to fight back the sudden wave of nausea as part of it oozes into his sneaker. </p><p>“They hate the Goblin King almost as much as the rebels do…” Sasha muses, her voice strangely muted against the background chaos. “But I don’t think why is incredibly important right now. Staying <em>safe</em> is.” </p><p>Jon honestly doesn’t have a better strategy, so he follows behind Sasha as they skirt the edges of the camp to look for somewhere to hide. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin follows the sound of raised voices into a room off of the main hall, where Gerry stands with his hands on what appears to be a layout of the kingdom surrounding the castle. </p><p>“—Corruption forces are moving in multiple locations,” Trevor reports, as he and Julia place tiny silver icons across the table. “We knew they were against you, but they haven’t made a move this brazen until now.” </p><p>Head lowered, long hair forming a curtain to cover his face, Gerry doesn’t bother looking up. “Between this and the Desolation… It’s only a matter of time before they coordinate something larger.” </p><p>Julia is the first to spot Martin, and she gives him a sharp-toothed smile and lifts a finger to her lips as if to keep a secret between them. “Trevor ‘n I will go run interference, Your Majesty.” </p><p>“Not to the one at the rebel camp. But enough that they’ll withdraw their forces. Or better yet, go after the hive. We have her location.” </p><p>“Can’t keep pussyfootin’ around her,” Trevor growls in agreement. “A decisive strike, on your orders.” </p><p>Gerry gives an exhausted wave of his hand, still focused on the table before him. “Go.” </p><p>Julia gives Martin a playful shoulder check as she moves past him, Trevor close behind her. </p><p>And then the two guards are gone, and Gerry lets out a long, weary sigh. </p><p>He pushes his hair out of his face with a hand, and glances up to see Martin standing awkwardly just inside the door. “What are you doing here?” he asks, though there doesn’t seem to be any real sort of alarm behind it. No scramble to cover the map, no attempt to keep any secrets. </p><p>“What happened?” Martin asks, because he doesn’t understand what the Corruption or the Desolation are referring to. He moves in closer and picks up one of the silver figures that Julia set down. </p><p>It is a tiny thing about the size of a woodlouse that rolls into the center of his palm. “Is this to scale?” he asks as he realizes the group of human figures it was stationed next to. “This must be massive!” </p><p>“Yes…” Gerry doesn’t seem to keen on explaining further, his shoulders sloping as he watches Martin place the figurine back down on the table. </p><p>So Martin rounds the table to stand next to him, drawing him away from the map and down into the chair stationed nearby. Then Martin moves to lean against the table, hoping that he’s enough of an impediment to block Gerry’s view of the map. “Do you want to talk?” </p><p>Now no longer having to keep himself steady on his feet, Gerry slumps back over, his head in his hands. “Things are falling apart, Martin. I just… I just needed five more days…” </p><p>Martin remembers the clock in the hall chiming the passage of time, wonders how much is left on it now. He hasn’t returned to look at it since his conversation with Gerry. “What happens then?” </p><p>“Either things stabilize, or they don’t.” With a growl of frustration, Gerry starts to push himself back to his feet, but Martin leans forward and places both hands on Gerry’s shoulders to keep him in place. </p><p>“What does this have to do with me and Jon?” </p><p>Gerry looks up at him, eyes searching, looking for forgiveness before he even gets the words out, but Martin thinks he understands. “You’re either what will stabilize it or bring it toppling down.” </p><p>“Me and Jon?” </p><p>There’s a beat, then Gerry nods. </p><p>“Is this what happened with Georgie and Melanie?” </p><p>Another nod. </p><p>“I don’t…” Martin starts, then falls back heavily against the table. He jumps upright again when he feels one of the labyrinth walls topple beneath him, and he winces as he sets it right. “I don’t understand how keeping the two of us apart or letting him rescue me will determine the fate of your kingdom. Or why, after it’s done, Georgie just couldn’t be let go.” </p><p>Gerry’s hand closes around Martin’s, and he pulls the piece from Martin’s grip. “There is old magic at work here,” he says, a phrase that Martin is beginning to learn means that it is finnicky and a poorly planned system. “It is weakening, and I’m hoping that…” Gerry fusses with one of the trees before setting it back on the table. </p><p>“You’re hoping that I will be able to fix it?” Martin finishes. </p><p>Gerry only nods in response. </p><p>Martin realizes how close the two of them are standing, wonders just when this distance became a tangible thing that he could so easily reach across. </p><p>So he does, letting his fingers graze over Gerry’s cheek to try and get his attention. “You could have asked, instead of this whole charade.” </p><p>The king’s dark eyes flicker with uncertainty beneath the warm lights of the room. “I could not risk something breaking if it was not done correctly,” he answers, slowly, carefully, not pulling away from Martin’s touch. </p><p>“If you told me from the beginning, I could have helped you understand it. You don’t have to go about this alone.” </p><p>“I’ve been alone since I was born, do not think that my weakness stems from that.” Gerry wraps his hand around Martin’s wrist, as if to pull the hand away, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers tighten their grip just enough to make it feel like a battle. </p><p>Martin reaches out with his other hand, the one with the ring, to take Gerry’s. To work out the tension in the clenched fist. “Where does it come from?” He knows this is a dangerous question, but he asks it anyway. Because if he is to be wrapped up in this, then he wants to have the truth laid out between them. </p><p>There is a weak laugh from Gerry as he closes his eyes. “If you didn’t already know, then you wouldn’t have asked.” </p><p>“Then let me help. Let <em>Jon</em> help.” </p><p>“I can’t.” It sounds like a sob instead of a word. “I’m too afraid of what would happen to you if it breaks.” </p><p>This time, Martin allows himself the indulgence of tracing the shape of Gerry’s jaw with the tip of his finger, and he feels the other man shiver against him. “You don’t think you’re worth being saved?” Martin asks, because it’s what he’s been wondering this entire time.</p><p>“Martin Blackwood-Sims,” Gerry says with a wretched mix of emotions. “You would save the Goblin King?”</p><p>Martin doesn’t know what sort of reaction he should make when his heart is aching so strongly, so he does the stupid thing and shrugs. “Sure. Jon will come save me, and then we’ll both rescue you. How does that sound?”</p><p>Gerry stares at him, black eyes hopeful for just long enough for it to <em>hurt</em> when he turns away. “Sounds like a fairytale,” he replies, and that distance is back between them.</p><p>He starts to turn away, to lower Martin’s hands to create the distance needed to make this <em>easier</em>. </p><p>But Martin isn’t having it, because he refuses to believe that this could all be solved by just <em>giving up</em>. </p><p>So he snatches his hand away from Gerry’s grip and lets his palm press to Gerry’s cheek, the other wrapping around his waist, and he leans in to kiss him. </p><p>There is a beat, a breath, an inhalation. The moment of realization. Then Gerry presses into the kiss, allows Martin to tug him in closer, grips at Martin’s hair with his long fingers. </p><p><em>This</em>, Martin thinks, <em>this is not the easy answer.</em> This is more than words — it is lips and tongue and teeth, small sounds in the back of the throat and hands in a desperate scramble. </p><p>This is honesty, and honesty is not always easy. </p><hr/><p>The light of the campfire is just barely visible by the time they slow to a stop. Any traces of worms petered out within the first few meters through the treeline. </p><p>Sasha presses one hand to her chest, the other to her knee, as she doubles over to try and catch her breath. “I was never in shape at the best of times,” she says with a wheezing laugh. “And being in a dungeon for a year sure did a number on me.” </p><p>Jon looks up from where he’s using a tree as support. “You said… You said you spoke to Martin?” </p><p>Fussing with her braid, Sasha visibly hesitates before she says, “He was in a cell near me. He spoke of you often.” </p><p>It’s a struggle to maintain his footing. More than anything, he wants to sink to the ground and scream. To know that the longer he takes, the more Martin suffers. </p><p>“I need to get to the castle,” he mutters, pushing himself away from the tree and taking two unsteady steps forward. “You know the way, don’t you? Or to the city? I can’t just keep wasting time.” </p><p>She makes a small sound of surprise and roots around in the folds of her skirt. “Before you go rushing off, I almost forgot.” </p><p>Jon wants to argue that he’s not about to go <em>rushing off</em>, he’s trying to ask if she’ll lead the charge. But then he stares down at the small wooden cube that she holds out to him and he loses his trail of thought almost immediately. “What’s this?” he asks, pushing his glasses up his nose as he tries to study the carvings in the dim light of the distant fire. </p><p>Gently tipping it into his palm, Sasha pushes his hand against his chest. “I nicked it during one of the rare chances I was let out of the cell. Used in a ritual of some kind I didn’t really understand.” She shudders and hugs her arms over her chest, then casts a glance over her shoulder at the camp. “I think it will help you talk to Martin.” </p><p>He nearly drops it in his scramble to study it further. “What? How?” </p><p>“I can’t be too sure,” she admits. “Magic isn’t my strong suit. I’ve seen the Goblin King using one of these to speak to his guards when they were out in the city. It might not work if Martin doesn’t have one, but…” </p><p><em>It’s worth a shot</em>. </p><p>The carvings in the dark wood are hard to make out, and the longer that Jon stares at them — turning the cube over and over between trembling fingers to try and work out the secret — the more they start to swim and dance in the half-light. </p><p>He gives his head a shake, then a moment later pinches the bridge of his nose. His vision swirls unsteadily, and the exhaustion he felt moments before returns full-force as he wavers in his spot. </p><p>“Jon?” Sasha asks, but she sounds impossibly far away. “Jon, are you alright?” Each word blends and blurs together, and Jon suddenly stumbles as a wave of vertigo crashes over him. </p><p>The wooden cube drops from his hand, and he follows shortly after — collapsing to his knees as his vision loses focus and the edges start to darken dangerously. “What…?” he means to ask, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth and his lips refuse to move. <em>What did you do?</em> </p><p>He doesn’t know who the question is aimed at. Himself. Sasha. The Goblin King. </p><p>He thinks he feels a hand, surprisingly cold and strange, against his face, a too-gentle <em>pat pat pat</em> to get him to focus that he barely feels. </p><p>And then he topples over, collapsing into the dead leaves and tangled roots, everything finally going black. </p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nBjvElCzAw&amp;ab_channel=TheJimHensonCompany">some mood music lolol</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somewhere, just out of sight, a chamber orchestra plays. </p><p>Jon pushes his way through the crowd, not knowing what he’s looking for, only that it’s somewhere <em>here</em>. The crowd moves around him in time to the music, the swirl of fabrics and jewels catching the light and making everything swim and dance. His head feels fuzzy, like there should be something important, something needing his attention. </p><p>Whatever he is looking for is <em>here</em>. </p><p>So he moves through the edges of the dance floor, his steps light and delicate in a way he has never known them to be. People part and move around him, the dance always leading them just out of the way of where he needs to go. </p><p>It is an ocean of fabric, of skirts and capes, layers of lace and silk and damask and velvet. It is a galaxy of jewels, glittering on necks and from ears, perched in curls or twined into braids. </p><p>The mask over his eyes itches, just a little. </p><p>When he lifts a hand to adjust the way it is tied at the back of his head, he’s caught by the iridescent pattern of his sleeves — lost in the way the light turns them into foam or to clouds depending on which way he turns his arm. </p><p>Across the ballroom, there is a flash of dark fabric and gold filigree in black hair, and Jon feels his breath catch in his throat. </p><p><em>There</em>, he thinks, though he is uncertain if he wants to run to or from the phantom flitting between the dancers. Moving as if stepping from shadow to light to a space that was just occupied by a giggling couple. </p><p>Jon blinks and the vision shifts, becoming clearer, a grimacing demon wrought in bone and gold hiding the face behind it. </p><p>And then a reveler shifts, and the image is gone, just two women with mirrors who laugh and twist away. </p><p>He pushes on, feeling the gaze on the back of his neck, chasing him through the ballroom as he wanders. Every eye that falls on him is wrong, not the one he is looking for — until it is, flecks of black behind a mask watching him as the figure passes off their dance partner to the next person — until it isn’t, and the dancers twirl and the gaze is lost once again. </p><p>Across the hall, Jon can see the mask again, and the dark eyes behind it. The lips, barely parted, moving to form a word, a name, a secret, then curling to seal the silent message with a teasing smirk. </p><p><em>There,</em> he thinks, as he lifts a hand to part the dancers before him, and instead feels fingers curl around his like they were always meant to be this way. </p><p>The stranger’s thumb grazes over the burn on his palm, and Jon knows instantly who this is by touch alone. </p><p>“Your Majesty,” he murmurs, lowering his eyes, uncertain he wants to meet the intensity of that black gaze staring out from the bone and gold half-mask. </p><p>The Goblin King doesn’t say anything. He lets his other hand curl around Jon’s waist, the pieces of them fitting together, like a puzzle solved. He takes a step back and Jon follows, then another, and a third, until he can sweep Jon into the rhythm of the dance. </p><p><em>This is easy</em>, Jon thinks, as he lets himself be led to the center of this storm. They are in their own world in the middle of the tide of jewels and fabric, and the only thing he can see is the Goblin King. </p><p>The king’s fingers burn where they press against the knobs of Jon’s spine, his palm flush against the small of Jon’s back. His touch is gentle, is hungry, is the desperate ebb and flow of their bodies together on the dance floor. </p><p>Jon can’t look away. He wants to memorizes the individual pieces of the Goblin King’s face — the eyes, the mouth, the tip of his nose, all the pieces visible around the half-mask that keeps them separated from one another. He doesn’t know why he would want to look away. </p><p>Nothing else seems real, not while he dances in the Goblin King’s arms.</p><p>The song ends, and the dancers part in a shower of applause, but the Goblin King keeps Jon in his grasp, the two of them caught in a web of their own devising. </p><p>“What is it that you want, Jon?” the Goblin King asks, lifting a hand to trace the lower edge of Jon’s mask where it curls over his cheekbones and across the bridge of his nose. “Name what you desire, and it is yours.” </p><p>There should be an easy answer, Jon thinks. He remembers light and shadow, of wooden figures swirling in the darkness. </p><p>He remembers a name, but does not know it. He remembers that this is the first time that he’s heard his name said like that on the Goblin King’s lips. <em>Jon</em>, the king said. Soft and personal, a word shared in the space between them. He wants this space between them to matter. </p><p>So he asks, “What is your name?” </p><p>This catches the Goblin King off-guard, and his mouth shifts into a gentle expression of surprise that the mask cannot hide. “Gerry Keay,” he answers, in a tone that indicates he almost doesn’t mean to, but can’t help but give this piece of himself away. </p><p>Jon repeats it, as the orchestra starts the next song and the rest of the dancers resume their places on the floor. He says it again, beneath a chord of violins and cello, and the Goblin King shivers in time with a timpani beat. </p><p>It is not the name he was thinking of, Jon knows this, but it is one he thinks he could enjoy just as much.</p><p>“What am I doing here?” This feels like an important question, and Jon hopes that it will remind him of what he is looking for — because he’s only found a piece of it in Gerry’s name. There is more, somewhere, if only he knew how to find it. </p><p>Gerry’s hand shifts to Jon’s hair, his fingers catching the seed pearls and strands of silver tangled within the curls. “You are here because I asked for you to be.” He still doesn’t look away. “This party is for you. Do you like it?” </p><p>Jon can feel the skirts and capes buffeting around them as they stand still in the middle of the dance floor, can feel the brush of fingers across his shoulder blades as someone reaches out as they pass. Overhead the chandeliers sway and the ceiling changes in a whirlwind of scenes before Jon realizes that it is inset with mirrors. As above, so below. </p><p>He cranes his head back to study his upside down reflection. “There is something missing.” He watches as Gerry’s hand traces down the line of his throat, over the collar of his blouse, searching fingers coming to a stop at the center of his breastbone. “The problem is, I don’t know what it is.” </p><p>“It’s one secret I have to keep from you,” Gerry confesses. “And I promise, for no longer than necessary, or I fear you will not forgive me. It is not mine to have, fond of it as I am.” He hooks a finger beneath Jon’s chin and tilts his head back down so that Jon meets his eyes once again. “All of this can be yours, if you want it. Anything and everything I have. I will rearrange the stars in the sky at your whim. I will gift you power, I will give you your dreams. Just fear me, love me — do as I say, and I will be your slave.”</p><p><em>This is easy</em>,Jon thinks, as Gerry’s lips hover just over his — the promise in the distance, the anticipation. “What would you ask of me?” </p><p>“Do not solve the labyrinth, Jon,” he says, whispering the words against Jon’s lips, and somewhere an unseen clock strikes four. </p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thing that Martin doesn’t tell Gerry is that he kept the crystal ball he had used to watch Jon. </p><p>Gerry left it with him when something came up that needed his attention — or perhaps that was just an excuse to give Martin a moment alone with his own emotions. </p><p>Martin isn’t certain if it was a gift he was meant to keep, but he still has it, so he takes it to Georgie. “You’ve been here longer than me,” he says as they sit cross-legged, knee to knee, on her bed. “What do you know of the Goblin King’s magic?” </p><p>She plucks the crystal ball from his hand and studies it, holding it up to the light as if that will give her a better answer. “I’ve learned to think of it as a house of cards: precarious, delicate, and liable to break at any moment.” She hands it back. “I think, if it’s you and me, we might be able to pull a card from the house without it toppling.” </p><p>He considers this, and tries to roll the ball from his palm to the back of his hand and back again — the way he’s seen Gerry do. “Something has changed. He’s not here right now.” </p><p>“No, and that’s the only reason I’m even suggesting this. We’ll only have one chance to do this.” Georgie hesitates, then takes both of Martin’s hands in her own. “How do you want to use it?” </p><p>“I want to help you get out of here,” he admits. </p><p>Georgie blinks at him in surprise. “What?” </p><p>“You’re here because of that delicate balance, right? And that’s why I’m here. I don’t really understand it, but I figure that as long as I <em>stay </em>here, and want to stay here, it shouldn’t topple.” </p><p>“You <em>want</em> to stay here?” </p><p>“I <em>want</em> to save… everyone,” he says on a sigh, shoulders shrugging in defeat. “I want to save you, and I want to save Gerry. And more than anything I want to save Jon, because knowing him, he’s not viewing this from the right angle and he doesn’t understand how this is supposed to work.” </p><p>She snorts and shakes her head. If she finds it odd that Martin uses the Goblin King’s name, too, she doesn’t say anything. “Martin, <em>you </em>barely understand. You can’t go scolding Jon.” </p><p>“I’m also a writer who is in love with a man who hates genre fiction, but you know: little sacrifices must be made. I can understand the formula eventually, but he’ll just outright reject it.” He smiles as she laughs at that. “So will you help me?” </p><p>“As best I can… And you’re sure I can’t convince you to leave with me?” </p><p>He stares at his inverted reflection in the crystal ball, nestled on the comforter in the diamond made by their knees. “I know I can help more if I stay here. I just have to want it.” Martin gives a soft, wry chuckle. “Intention is half the battle with magic, right?” </p><p>“I suppose…” </p><p>Martin gives her hands a gentle squeeze and what he hopes is a confident nod. “Say hi to Jon for me, if you see him, yeah?” </p><p>“You’ll see him soon enough, once all this is done.”</p><p>They close their eyes and focus on the pulse that Martin has felt in the back of his head ever since arriving at the castle. It stirs at their touch, and between them, the crystal ball emits a soft, golden light.</p><p>The scene around them shifts, changes, and Martin can feel Georgie’s grip slip from his own. </p><p>He lets her go, and follows the tug of the story, and the sound of music. </p><hr/><p>Jon pushes Gerry away. “What?” he asks, confused, uncertain of why his body reacted before his brain did. Then, “No,” he says, confidence growing as the rest of him catches up. </p><p>“Jon—” the Goblin King begs, his arm around Jon’s waist drawing him in closer. He lifts one hand to push his own mask out of the way, his skin powdered with gold and his eyes lined with black and liquid gold in a way that makes them seem endless. “I ask for so little. Just let me rule you, and you can have <em>everything</em>.” </p><p>“What I want is Martin,” Jon says, and that’s the name he had been looking for. It is sweet and heavy on his tongue, and he has no idea how he could have forgotten it. “Until you can promise me that, then I’m not going to give you anything.” </p><p>With that, he twists out of the snare of the Goblin King’s arms, the edges of him flickering and blurring as the light catches on the diamonds and silver sewn into his sleeves and woven into his hair. </p><p>The Goblin King reaches for him, but misses as the dancers rush to fill the space that Jon just occupied. </p><p>He pushes his way through the crowd, grabbing onto arms and shoulders to try and haul himself free. Frustrated, he tears the mask from his face and tosses it aside as soon as he is clear of the crush of bodies. </p><p>His lungs pull in desperate gasps of air, and for a moment, he thinks he might just break down right here in the middle of the ballroom. </p><p><em>Anything you want</em>, the Goblin King had promised, and Jon aches with the need of it.</p><p>A hand grasps his wrist from behind and Jon knows that touch — knows it with every inch of his body. He turns with it, spinning in time with the dancers surrounding them, and comes face to face with a startled and surprised Martin. </p><p>“It’s you,” Martin says, as if he had hoped but didn’t actually dream, had braced himself for the very real possibility that it wasn’t. “Jon, I—” </p><p>Jon doesn’t wait for the rest of the sentence. He throws his arms around Martin’s neck and presses in as close as he can to capture Martin’s lips in a kiss. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps, lifting a hand to cradle the side of Martin’s face. “For all of this. That argument. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“I forgive you,” Martin responds easily, and accepts another kiss, and a third, before pulling Jon closer for a rib-crushing hug. “I’ve missed you so much.” </p><p>“I’m coming to save you,” Jon says into his shoulder, fingers clenching into fists around the fabric of Martin’s coat. “I’m so close.” </p><p>“I know.” Martin’s grip tightens for a heartbeat, but then he releases Jon and pushes him back to arm’s length. “I know, and I love you, but you have to listen to me: This isn’t real.” </p><p>Jon’s brow furrows, and his hand — burned by Jude, healed by the Goblin King — comes to rest against Martin’s cheek. “This feels real. <em>You</em> feel real.” </p><p>“It is but it isn’t. I’m here, but we wouldn’t be able to leave together.” He covers Jon’s hand with his own and tilts his head to press a kiss to the palm. His thumb runs down over the pulse point on the wrist. “I’ve missed you…” he repeats, breathing deep and letting his grip tighten. </p><p>He sweeps his thumb over the ridge of Martin’s cheek, then leans in to press another kiss to his lips. “Are you okay? I heard— Sasha said you were in a cell—” </p><p>Martin’s brow furrows, and there is a degree of tension seeping into his shoulders. “What? I’m fine.” Then, after a beat, “Who is Sasha?” </p><p>Jon’s mouth opens, but his voice gives a small stubborn squeak in confusion. He can feel eyes on him, and when he looks, everyone stops mid-movement. </p><p>The dancers are frozen in place, and the other guests at the party pause in a parody of revelry. As one, their heads turn and look at him and Martin. </p><p>Overhead, reflected in the mirrors, Jon can see the Goblin King’s shadow moving between their forms. </p><p>“She said…” he starts, but then his thoughts start to swim and everything around him tilts one way while he tilts the other. </p><p>Martin’s arm around his waist is the only thing keeping him upright. “Jon, I don’t have much time. You have to listen to me.” He gives Jon’s hand a squeeze, then cups his face with both hands to force Jon to look at him. “Gerry needs our help, alright? He will try and tell you that he can do this without you, but in order for this to work, <em>I</em> need you.” </p><p>“What are you talking about?” Jon lifts a hand to rub his face, and realizes that he’s not wearing his glasses. That could explain why everything is blurry and out of focus — everything except the Goblin King, cutting in and out of reflections and shadows, his face twisted in frustration. </p><p>“I’m alright. Whatever you heard about me, it’s not true. None of this is true, alright? Just remember, I love y—” </p><p>Martin vanishes, and a cry rips its way out of Jon’s throat as he reaches into the gaping emptiness where Martin just stood. </p><p>But the Goblin King catches his wrist and spins him around. “I will not let you interfere, you understand?” he says through gritted teeth, and pulls harder as Jon attempts to free himself. “I could make this easy on you. You could just agree to my terms, and it wouldn’t have to be like this. I have been generous up until now. Do not make me be cruel.” </p><p>Before Jon can even ask, the clock strikes three.</p><p>There is something tugging on his left hand, and something tugging on the back of his collar. Thin and tenuous as spider silk, and when he tilts his head just so, the gossamer threads catch the light to outline the way they connect Jon and the Goblin King and everything in this room. </p><p>The Goblin King notices this at the same time, and his eyes go wide with fear. “Jon, <em>don’t—</em>” </p><p>Jon does. </p><p>He wraps his fingers around a handful of threads and he gives them a tremendous tug. </p><p>The mirrors overhead shatter, and like a ripple effect as silver and glass rain down on their heads, the walls begin to crumble and break as well. </p><p>At the same time, the tug on the back of his collar gives a little pull of its own, and Jon feels the pinch at the top of his spine, a migraine threatening to overwhelm him, and the pain washes over every thought. </p><p>Beneath his feet, the fractures spread out like spiderweb.</p><p>“Jon!” </p><p>The last thing he sees is Gerry reaching for him, trying to catch him and pull him to safety, as he pitches backwards into the waiting black. </p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gerry comes to with a jerk and a gasp, and he’s on his feet in an instant. </p><p>Martin is sprawled on the stone floor before him, dazed and lost, looking around to try and figure out how he got to where he is. </p><p>“What did you <em>do</em>?” Gerry demands, advancing on him and hating the way Martin scrambles backwards. “How did you get there—” He cuts himself off as he notices one of his crystal balls rolling away from Martin before vanishing into the shadows of the hall. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Martin says, slowly coming back to his senses. “What— Gerry, what was that?” He starts to run a hand through his hair, then notices that there is something thin and silver twined around his fingers. </p><p>One of the decorations from Jon’s hair. </p><p>He had <em>been there</em>. Somehow, he had managed to insert himself into the realm that Gerry created, strong enough to interact with it and bring a piece of it back with him. </p><p>Martin clambers to his feet, though his legs buckle and nearly give out as a wave of dizziness washes over him. </p><p><em>It’s always like that the first few times, you’ll get used to it</em>, Gerry wants to reassure him, but he holds his tongue. </p><p>“What have you been doing to him?” Martin demands, clutching the hairpiece in his fist. </p><p>Gerry bristles but holds his ground as Martin advances. He’s the Goblin King<em>. </em>He will not be cowed by an angry human. “I’ve done nothing but advance time in accordance to my whims.” </p><p>“His hand was mangled—” </p><p>“I’ll have you know he would lost that hand if I had not intervened!” He almost reaches for Martin, longs to close that distance that springs up between them. </p><p>“Why did he think I was in a <em>cell</em>?” </p><p>Gerry’s brow furrows at this, but before he can get the chance to press, Martin continue with, “Who is Sasha, and why is she lying to him like that?” </p><p>The pit of Gerry’s stomach goes cold, and he sucks in a breath through his nose. <em>Shit</em>. Sasha is giving away pieces of truth that she’s not supposed to be, twisting them with just enough doubt. That’s what he gets for trusting one of the Strangers’ forces to help him. </p><p>He has fewer allies than he thought he did. </p><p>“You still haven’t answered my question,” Gerry says as evenly as he can. “What did you do, and how did you get there?” </p><p>“You didn’t ask for the crystal back,” Martin snaps. “So Georgie and I used it as a focus—” </p><p>“<em>Georgie</em>?” Gerry’s mind reels as he starts to try and put the pieces together. He focuses, reaching, feeling for the weave of magic around the place and how it still holds together. </p><p>Except for the piece that is missing. </p><p>Except that Georgie is gone, and Martin manipulated the weave without knowing what he was doing in order to insert himself into a place that doesn’t exist in order to reach Jon. </p><p>The clock strikes two, and Gerry and Martin both jump in surprise at the suddenness of it. </p><p>“I can’t… Martin…” He’s suddenly so tired. Two days left, and then this will all be over. He needs to figure out what might be broken, what can be fixed — what he can stop to stem the tide of destruction that might follow. “There is a reason that I’m keeping you from him—” </p><p>“A reason you have not truly given me, nor do I really believe when you’ve tried.” Martin advances another step. “Jon and I are stronger together. If that is what I can do on my own, imagine that I can do if I just <em>know</em> what is happening—” </p><p>“You can’t just fix anything because you <em>want</em> it to happen bad enough!” Gerry shouts, and Martin flinches. “This isn’t one of your stories with a happy ending, alright? There is no saving the monster, there is no version of this where Jon can save you and me.” </p><p>“Are you asking me to make a choice?” Martin’s hands flex into fists at his side. “Because there is <em>always</em> a way to save you both. But if you think he’s just a distraction, then send him back. Save him <em>for </em>me, and I will stay here with you.” </p><p>“And you think that is the answer?!” Gerry rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots and wanting to scream in frustration or laugh in disbelief. He feels so many things at once that he doesn’t know how to handle the jumbled mess of them at war in his chest. </p><p>Martin’s shoulders droop, the fight going out of them, and he reaches forward. “Gerry—” he tries, but Gerry smacks his hand away. </p><p>He has to go. He can still fix this. There is still a way for this to work. </p><p>He vanishes before Martin can say anything else, but if he <em>looks</em>, if he watches, following the thread that connects him to Martin, to the room he left behind, he can watch as Martin stares at the now empty space, his entire posture one of defeat. </p><p>And with slow, heavy footsteps, he approaches the chair (the <em>throne</em>), and drops into it. Then he doubles over and buries his face in his hands, and that is how Gerry leaves him, finally, to try and find where everything went wrong, and how he can mend the tear.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon wakes with a start, sucking in a lungful of air as he sits bolt upright on the bed. He tries to say a name, but his tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, and he gropes absently for his glasses on the bedside table. </p><p>His heart still pounding and his breathing coming in ragged gasps, he swings his legs around over the side of his bed and finds his house slippers by touch. </p><p>He tries to speak again, but he breaks off in a cough. Perhaps he got a cold. It would explain why he feels so absolutely knackered. </p><p>Jon shuffles to the bathroom and splashes water on his face before settling his glasses back into their proper place on the bridge of his nose. He coughs again to clear his throat, and debates if he wants to brush his teeth or have tea as he turns back to his bedroom to find his dressing robe. </p><p>A woman stands in the doorway to the ensuite bathroom, her smile equal parts kind and delighted and her eyes— </p><p>Jon freezes in his spot, the arachnophobia that has never gone away seizing his spine and twisting his gut in an altogether nauseating and dizzying way. </p><p>Her smile is normal enough, though, and he focuses on that instead of the spider-like eyes. “Now, this isn’t quite perfect, is it?” she asks, voice sticky-sweet as she reaches out and brushes the sweat-slick hair away from his forehead. “No, this just won’t do.” </p><p>There’s a blip and a hiccup and then he is sitting on the edge of his bed, hair wet from a shower, his pajama pants a fresh-from-the-laundry warm and a robe that’s too big and perfectly fuzzy draped around his shoulders like a hug. </p><p><em>Much better</em>, he thinks in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like his. <em>Now, tea.</em> </p><p>He stands. He walks without shuffling out of his room and turns straight into the kitchen without lingering in the hall. Why would he need to linger in the hall? The kitchen is where the kettle is. </p><p>Something in the kitchen feels a little off. Like he’s in for a vision test, and has one hand over his left eye and he is only seeing half of the image — the astigmatism never making the pieces line up perfectly. </p><p>He blinks, shakes his head, and things feel normal. </p><p>“Must be a cold,” he says to the empty room. He nudges his glasses with one knuckle, as if just to make sure they’re there. He steps up to the electric kettle and checks the water level. </p><p>Full, like always. </p><p>Full, because he always refills it after he uses it, and besides, who else would be using it? </p><p>“Wait,” he says to the empty room, and he can feel that too-heavy, too-dry tongue in his mouth that makes his words seem off the same way his vision felt off. “Where is—” </p><p>A blip, a hiccup, and he’s at the dining table with a cup of tea in his hands. Asam, a splash of milk, a touch of honey instead of sugar, a wedge of lemon used and discarded on his saucer. </p><p><em>Perfect</em>, he thinks in that voice that isn’t quite his as he takes a sip. Because it is perfect. The ideal cup of tea, the way he could never get it because he always under-pours the milk and over-spoons the honey. </p><p>Tea made the way that— </p><p><em>Stop that</em>, the voice says, harsher this time, and there is a jerk, a tug, and his hand twitches in response to <em>something</em>. The cup clatters against the saucer as he misjudges the angle to put it back and it starts to topple from his fingers as they go numb and lock in an unnatural angle— </p><p>A blip, a hiccup. </p><p>He sits at the dining table with a mug of tea in his hands. English breakfast, plain. The cheap store-bought kind because he doesn’t have the time or patience for anything loose-leaf when all he has is work and home. Home and work. He spends too-long hours at work, and comes home to an empty flat. </p><p>“This is a very big place,” he says to the empty room. “Perhaps I should get something smaller.” Something closer to work. Why did he think he needed a second room?</p><p>He looks over his shoulder at the closed door and tries to think about why he needed that second room. It was going to be a guest room… </p><p><em>Stop it—</em> </p><p>But then they turned it into an office. </p><p><em>I said stop—</em> </p><p>A place where— </p><p>He hisses in pain as a sharp bolt of it lances through his skull. <em>A migraine</em>, he thinks. <em>Great.</em> </p><p>He gets up from the table and heads back to the bathroom without lingering in the hall. The space of it is closer than he remembers it being, and he knocks his hip against a doorway that should have been larger, bangs his elbow against the towel rack that has one set of towels on it. </p><p><em>This migraine is really doing a number on me</em>, he thinks and reaches for the medicine in the mirrored cabinet. The door of it swings open, and he’s not looking properly at the way his reflection multiples or he would see the spider silk thin threads radiating from him and the woman with too many eyes smiling as she pulls the strings just so. </p><p>Instead, he reaches in to the cabinet for the bottle of pills. </p><p>There, next to an inhaler that isn’t his— </p><p>There, on the counter over the sink. Right where he left it, because there is no mirrored medicine cabinet. There isn’t enough space for one. </p><p>He takes a pair of pills and swallows them dry and heads back into the bedroom. He will take a nap, perhaps. When he wakes up, this headache will be gone, perhaps. </p><p>He takes off the robe that is just a little too small in the arms when he stretches, but he’s never bothered to buy a new one after he accidentally shrunk this one in the dryer. He drapes it at the foot of the bed, and takes off his glasses. </p><p>“Perhaps a little light reading before I sleep,” he says to no one as he picks up the nondescript and worn leather book from the side of the table. </p><p>He opens the book to a random page, and begins to read. </p><p>—<em>the Hero struggles to right himself as the light swirls and dances around him. The figures on the wooden cube seem to move in time, and distantly he hears the song that is played for their never-ending dance. </em></p><p>
  <em>The Hero steps forward, feeling the world tilt around him as the scene switches from the forest, as the woman at his side gives a smile that is too wide and too sharp for her face, as she takes the cube from his limp hands as he falls. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then he is in an ornate dance hall, a man he doesn’t know sweeping him into the steps of a dance he doesn’t know. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you know how to find the king of this land?” he asks the stranger, but the beautiful man dancing with him just laughs and passes him off to a masked person in a long flowing gown. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Around and around until he is caught in the arms of his true love, and the Hero almost sobs with relief. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s you,” they say to each other at the same time, and then there is a shared laugh between them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m coming to save you,” the Hero says into his shoulder, fingers clenching into fists around the fabric of his lover’s coat. “I’m so close.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know.” The grip around the Hero tightens for a heartbeat, but then he is released and pushed back to arm’s length. “I know, and I love you, but you have to listen to me: This isn’t real. Jon, this isn’t real. Jon, wake up, please, this isn’t real—”</em>
</p><p>A blip, a hiccup, he grips the edge of the sink as he chokes on something in his throat that blocks his airways and makes it impossible to swallow. “What are you doing?” he gasps, then coughs and gags— </p><p>A blip, a hiccup, he’s looking up at something that he can’t see — the reflection showing a woman with her hand gripping just beneath his jaw and forcing his chin up as she studies something only she can see — he’s struggling to breath and swatting at something that he cannot see but he can feel — that ghost light touch of a hair on his arm or a spider crawling up his leg — a blip, a hiccup— </p><p>He’s standing in front of a door that is closed to a room that he doesn’t remember. He holds a tray with two tea mugs and a plate of biscuits. He pushes open the door despite the way that something tries to yank his hand back and he finds a hollow space where an office used to be, he sees a mass of spiders crawling across the wooden floorboards and up the walls that are no longer floors and walls, it is a nest, a hive, and a woman with too many eyes screams through gritted teeth as she tugs at the puppet strings hooked into his skin and shoves him back, out into the hall, dropping the tray and sending tea and biscuits scattering across the hardwood— the rug— the tile as he clings to the sink in the too-small bathroom, heaving for breath, his hands shaking as he tries to haul himself upright, and the gold wedding band on his finger catches the light and he finally remembers the name as it leaves him on a gasp, “Martin—” </p><p>He stands in the hall. He doesn’t remember where he is. He’s wearing his sneakers, his battered sweater that could be grey, could be beige, and an old band tshirt. His hair is tied back away from his face, and his glasses are smudged. </p><p>He stands in the hall, and there is a yellow door on the other end, set into a wall that would lead into the neighbor’s flat if he were at home, <em>home?</em>, and that’s strange. That shouldn’t be there. </p><p>He doesn’t say anything as he steps towards it — past the open door to his bedroom that looks empty and lonely, past the closed door to a room that he doesn’t remember why it’s an office, and then he wraps his fingers around the handle of the yellow door. </p><p>A woman with a number of eyes, he doesn’t know if it’s too many or too few or even how many there are, stomach and brain warring with what he sees and what he <em>knows</em>, puts her hand on his as he starts to turn the knob. “You are happy here,” she says, with the voice that he remembers from his thoughts. </p><p>“I am happy here,” he says. He starts to draw back, and he tucks his hand into the pocket of his sweater, wondering why he’s wearing his sneakers, when his fingers brush over a piece of paper. </p><p>He pulls it out, and the edges of it are ragged and torn. </p><p><em>Jon, this isn’t real</em>, scrawled in an achingly familiar hand. One that he remembers the warmth of, the weight of, the feeling of it sliding the ring onto his finger accompanied with the promise of <em>I do</em>. </p><p>“I am happy here with Martin,” he says, ignoring the woman’s voice as she tries to cajole him back, and he tugs open the waiting yellow door. </p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two pairs of hands grasp his outstretched arms and pull him through the mess of webbing. “We got you,” Tim’s voice says, though it is hazy and muffled. “C’mon, Jon, almost there.” </p><p>With one final tug, he’s pulled free and tumbles forward onto the forest floor, collapsing alongside Basira and Tim as he struggles to breathe. The panic is still wedged down his throat, the sensation of tons of tiny little legs skittering across his flesh, the spider silk clinging to his hair. He gives a strangled cry and bats at his arms and legs until the feeling fades. </p><p>“It’s alright, you’re safe now,” Basira says, equally breathless. There is a burn across one cheek, and her clothes are scuffed and worn in a way they weren’t when he last saw her. How long ago was that? </p><p>He thinks of the clock chiming, wonders how much was left to begin with. “What…” he finally manages. “What was that?” </p><p>“The Web, my guess.” Daisy pads closer, and nudges Jon’s chin with her wet nose. She concedes to receive a pat as his pulse slows to a normal pace and he needs something to distract himself. “I never knew Annabelle to get so personally involved.” </p><p>“And you’re certain it wasn’t on behalf of the Goblin King?” Basira asks, accepting Tim’s hand to help her back to her feet. </p><p>“I saw him…” Jon says, thinking of the masquerade, the colors and lights. “I don’t know how much of it was real though…” </p><p>Daisy nudges him again until he tries to get back to his feet. She leans against his leg as a support as they follow after Basira and Tim. “You experienced it, who is to say that isn’t real?” Then, a bit quieter, she adds, “I have experienced the magic of the Goblin King. It is best to think of it as real, though not always true.” </p><p>“Great, thanks, that makes loads of sense.” </p><p>It’s hard to tell over the steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she walks, but Jon thinks that she might give a soft huff of laughter. “No, I think that’s more of a defense mechanism.” </p><p>“For the king or the magic?” </p><p>“Honestly, I don’t think there is a difference.” </p><p>Jon considers this as they enter the camp. It’s smaller than it was before, more consolidated, but otherwise everyone looks fine enough. “You survived the Corruption alright, it seems,” Jon comments. </p><p>“They’re easy enough to defend against if you know how,” Basira says, unfastening her sword from her belt and tossing it down with what must be the rest of her stuff. “The real problem is when they attack in numbers like that. Which, I will admit, it is unusual to see such a force.” </p><p>“The Goblin King <em>is</em> on a timeline,” Tim grumbles and casts Jon a glance. </p><p>Jon opens his mouth, though he’s not too sure what exactly he wants to say. To defend the Goblin King, knowing that he’s extremely one-tracked at the moment, that the worms couldn’t have been him? But again, without him, Jon wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. </p><p>His focus is quickly distracted when he notices Sasha sitting off to the side, a blank expression on her face until Jon’s eyes meet hers. </p><p>Then it’s awash with relief and she rises to her feet. “Oh! Oh, you’re okay,” she says as she hurries over to them. </p><p>Tim watches with his mouth pressed into a thin line as she walks right past him, attention on Jon alone. </p><p>Jon jerks away from her as she reaches for him, his body acting without thought. He can’t remember why, the bits of it fuzzy and hard to pick apart. </p><p>Her hand hovers in the space between them, then she quickly recovers by using it to fuss with her braid. “I was worried when we got separated in the forest. Especially with the Corruption so close by.” </p><p>“Yes,” he says, though this doesn’t quite seem like the correct thing to say. “I’m sorry for worrying you. All of you.” </p><p>Daisy nudges his hand to get his attention. “There is someone here you should meet.” </p><p>For one, heart-stopping second Jon wonders if it’s Martin, that he made it out after that. But he follows after the wolf to the far end of camp, the hope slowly melting away to settle back in reality. </p><p>Martin told him that he couldn’t leave, that they couldn’t be together. Not until Jon makes it to the castle. Regardless of what the Goblin King is planning. </p><p>Let him try and get in Jon’s way. </p><p>He hears Melanie’s voice first, though he can’t make out her words around the mess of emotions that is tangled in the tone. When he finally spots them, Daisy a silent companion at his side, he freezes in his spot. </p><p>The two women pause in their conversation and turn in his direction. The newcomer’s eyes widen, and she crosses the distance between them with a few quick steps. “You must be Jon,” she says, breathless, and Jon recognizes her voice from <em>What the Ghost</em>. </p><p>“You’re Georgie, aren’t you?” </p><p>“Oh, Martin mentioned that you were a fan of the show,” she teases, and Jon can’t help the blush that starts at the back of his neck and up his ears. “It’s nice to be able to meet you. Martin talked a lot about you.” </p><p>His heart does a strange mix of a flutter and a heavy thud that makes him wonder what the ramifications are of arrhythmia kicking in when he’s away from his meds. “Melanie has said absolutely nothing about you.” It’s not strictly true, but she hadn’t spoken at any great length about Georgie the way he’s certain Martin would do about him. </p><p>Georgie’s smile is soft, but distracted as she turns back towards her girlfriend. “We’ll get a chance to talk later, Jon, I promise, but—” </p><p>“You haven’t seen each other in a year. I understand.” He hesitates then reaches out and gives her bicep a squeeze. “I’m glad you made it.” </p><p>“You’ll save him,” she says, sounding far more confident than he feels. “You’ll save them both.” </p><p>Jon wonders about that as he watches her head back towards Melanie. </p><p>Daisy herds him around to give the two of them their space, and he’s grateful for her presence. </p><p>“I have a question,” he asks, before they can rejoin the others. </p><p>The wolf gives a rather human grunt. </p><p>“How did you find me?” </p><p>She glances up at him, then sits down to give this question thought. “Helen picked out the disturbance.” </p><p>“In the Force?” he asks before he can stop himself, and winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. He can imagine the pleased grin on Martin’s face if he had heard the reference. </p><p>Her head tilts, ears perked in question. “In the ambient magic of this place, I suppose you could say. When you know the signs, you can follow the trail easily enough.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Jon says, and he sits down alongside her. “I’m running out of time.” </p><p>“The fact that His Majesty has left you with any time at all, I think, is more surprising.” She settles in more comfortably, her dark eyes trained on the fire, head on her paws. “He is not a cruel man, but he will make impulsive choices to prove that he <em>can</em> be cruel.” </p><p>Jon hugs his knees to his chest. “How long did you work for him?” </p><p>She heaves a sigh, and the dirt eddies around her muzzle. “A long time. About as long as he has been king. Someone else was head of the guard when his mother was on the throne, but he moved a lot of pieces around when she died.” </p><p>“And how is it that Julia and Trevor aren’t always wolves? Unless I misunderstood something.” </p><p>Her ears flatten against her head and her lips pull back in a silent snarl, but before he can apologize, she says, “Like I said: He will make impulsive choices to prove a point. And often that point is that he is the more powerful person in a room. If you drive him to that point, then congratulations: You made the Goblin King feel small.” </p><p>Jon thinks about the two days that wheeled overhead in the matter of seconds as they stood in the drain tunnel. He thinks of the entire ballroom shattering to pieces around them and the clock chiming four. “I don’t think he likes me very much.” </p><p>“I think he’s afraid to like you.” She glances at him then back to the fire. “Professional opinion.” </p><p>“What happened to you?” </p><p>“I told him something he didn’t like. He made this form stick, when I used to be able to shift between the two.” </p><p>“Would you forgive him if he undid it?” </p><p>“Only if he took what I said into consideration.” Daisy pushes herself back onto all fours and shakes herself to loosen off the dirt. </p><p>Jon has to lift a hand to protect his face. </p><p>“Rest for now. In the morning I’ll lead you to the city,” she says before walking away. </p><p>Jon watches her go, then turns his attention back to the fire.</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon jerks awake some unknown time later. He looks around wildly, unable to remember where he is, wondering why he’s on the ground, before his thoughts catch up. </p><p>The bonfire is frozen in place, and the air is still and heavy. When he glances around, he notices that everyone else seems to be asleep — even Tim, who is supposed to be on watch. </p><p>From the shadows of the fire steps a figure, and the flames highlight the Goblin King’s profile as he comes into view. He looks exhausted, about as wrecked as Jon feels, and they stare at each other in silence for a long moment, as if daring the other to speak first. </p><p>Gerry licks his lips and says, in a voice that is dry and brittle, “He is willing to sacrifice himself to save you.” </p><p>“Fuck that,” Jon says without even needing clarification. “Tell him no.”</p><p>The Goblin King makes a little movement of his shoulders that might be a shrug. </p><p>Jon straightens his posture and crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t want to feel defensive, but he doesn’t like the Goblin King towering over him and he’s afraid his legs won’t support his weight if he tried to stand. “Besides, I’ll be there before either of you know it. Might as well hold on a little while longer and send us both back.” </p><p>“You have less than two days left,” the Goblin King says instead of rising to the bait. </p><p>“I’ll get there tomorrow,” Jon replies, trying to pull together Georgie’s confidence. “And Martin won’t forgive you if you shorten the time any further.” </p><p>This strikes harder than Jon thought it would, and Gerry flinches in response. “What is it about you that makes you so special?” </p><p>Jon wonders if that was meant to be asked out loud, and he snorts in response. “In general, or to Martin?” </p><p>“I am offering to bend time and space for you, and you brush me off like nothing.” </p><p>“You took my husband from me.” </p><p>“And he’s willing to stay here to save you.” </p><p>“Yes, well, he’s not a very smart man.” </p><p>There is a flash of a smile across Gerry’s face, and Jon is surprised how fond it actually is. But it is there and gone again so fast that he’s not even too certain he even saw it. “Would you believe me if I said that I do not wish to see him sad?” </p><p>“Yes,” Jon repeats. “He has the most powerful puppy dog eyes I’ve seen in a person and you would regret everything if you made him sad.” </p><p>“More than that.” He moves as if to take a step closer, but hesitates. “I would rearrange the stars for you, Jon, for both of you. But I just ask that you <em>let</em> me.” </p><p>Jon shakes his head, then rubs his hand over his face. “You ask for an incredible amount of trust for not being willing to do anything to guarantee it.” </p><p>Gerry kneels then, and Jon is so startled that his jaw drops as he is able to meet the Goblin King’s gaze eye to eye. “Because I cannot promise that it will go well.” </p><p>“Then why risk it?” </p><p>“If it works, then <em>everything</em> will be better for it. My kingdom, my people, you.” </p><p>“Your Majesty—” </p><p>“I gave you my name. I would like for you to use it.” </p><p>Jon tries to say it, but the shape of it sticks in his throat and even though the camp is silent, the fire still, it feels like such a burden to be given. Martin had said it so casually, and he envies that ease. The familiarity that must have grown to be able to wield it in such a fashion. “Gerry,” he says, voice barely audible. “I am going to save Martin, regardless of your personal desires on the matter. It is up to you if I’m going to save you as well when I get there.” </p><p>The Goblin King’s black eyes look like chips of onyx stone set into his face, and the frozen flames wash his skin in a golden glow. It is such a different sensation to be stared at like this than it was in the ballroom. Like the pieces that make up <em>Jon</em> are being pulled apart and examined. </p><p>And then Gerry’s shoulders loosen as his posture droops, and the corners of his eyes pinch. “If you can manage that, you would be a mighty hero indeed,” he murmurs into the space between them. </p><p>Jon stiffens at the memory of the book he read in the apartment that was not his, about the Hero, who found his lover while looking for the Goblin King. </p><p>For a moment, he wonders if the two were different people, or if they were the same being — beloved and powerful, worthy of the attention of the Hero. </p><p>“Martin has a way of creating heroes in unlikely characters,” Jon says.</p><p>A piece of wood <em>cracks, </em>the sound ringing through the campfire like a shot, and the fire roars back to life. </p><p>Jon jumps and realizes that he’s alone. He looks around, trying to find any trace of the Goblin King, wondering if that was real or just another strange dream out of time. </p><p>The only thing he notices is Sasha sitting up across the way. </p><p>She notices his stare, and gives him a sharp, clever smile, and <em>winks</em>. </p><p>Not quite a blip or a hiccup, but Jon can feel the jolt down his spine, and when he looks next, Sasha is asleep, and Tim is on watch looking bored, and everything is normal. </p><p>He can’t fall back asleep after that, every nerve in his body on edge and prepared for the next weird thing that will happen. </p><p>He can’t stop thinking about the expression on the Goblin King’s face — <em>Gerry’s</em> face — as he kneeled and said <em>I gave you my name, I would like for you to use it</em>.</p><p>He can’t stop wondering about the story in Martin’s journal, and wonders if he should have paid better attention to the words on the pages, or when Martin would talk about it. How much of this would he understand if he had just <em>listened</em>? </p><p>There is a soft footfall approaching from just behind, and Jon whirls around to find Georgie shuffling over with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. </p><p>She drops onto the ground next to him and gives his shoulder a friendly bump. “Can’t sleep?” </p><p>“No. I haven’t had many good experiences with that lately.” </p><p>“This place does tend to have that effect on people like us.” </p><p>Jon sighs and fusses with the half-hearted ponytail his hair is pulled back in. “I look forward to sleeping in my own bed once this is all over.” </p><p>“Oh, now isn’t the time to tell you that I have definitely been sleeping in a bed nicer than the one I’ve got at home, huh?” Georgie’s laugh is light and teasing, but there is a look in her eyes that Jon feels deep in his chest. “Poor Mel, having to make do for a year.” </p><p>Jon’s gaze shifts back to Sasha, her back to him and still asleep. “You said you spoke to Martin while you were in the castle.” </p><p>“Quite a bit, yes.” Georgie studies him, then bites the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know who she is,” she finally says, following his gaze. Something about that doesn’t quite sound like the truth, but Jon can’t put a finger on it. “Martin has a room of his own, we could go wherever we wanted — within the confines of the castle, of course, but it wasn’t like <span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>Oooh</em></span><em> the West Wing is forbidden!</em>” She dons a dramatic and spooky tone for that last bit, waggling her fingers in what must pass for a menacing Goblin King impression. </p><p>A small laugh works its way out of Jon’s mouth, but it falls away just as quickly. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. I can’t even trust what I’m seeing half the time.” </p><p>“That’s the hardest part of getting used to this place,” Georgie admits and pulls the blanket closer around her shoulders. “My one bit of advice: Trust your gut. You can’t trust what you see, but you should always trust what you <em>feel</em>. It will effect the magic of this place.” </p><p>“If you want something enough…” Jon trails off, and takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you made it out, Georgie,” he says before realizing that he’s already told her that. But it feels different this time, in the sleepy silence of the camp, the two of them side by side.</p><p>She reaches for his hand, and he lets her take it. “You’ll get him back,” she says, and there is a soft determination to her tone — different than the loud courage she had before when she told him the same thing. “If you believe you will, then that’s just the first step to making it come true. </p><p>Jon gives her hand a squeeze, and hopes that she’s right. “How did you make it?” </p><p>“How nice of you to not ask why I’m here when Martin isn’t.” </p><p>He sighs and his head droops forward, chin to his chest, but the exhaustion is too deep to let him sleep. “I didn’t mean it like that. It just kept sounding like you <em>had </em>to be there, or else it would all fall apart.” </p><p>Besides, Georgie and Melanie have suffered a year apart. Jon wouldn’t wish them a longer delay, even if it mean he still has to fight to find Martin. </p><p>Georgie gives a faint sound as she settles in more comfortably against his side. “I don’t know if I can explain it in a way that makes sense—” </p><p>“Because I wasn’t there?” </p><p>“Because you don’t believe in magic,” she teases, and chuckles at his pout. “Not in the way that Martin does.” </p><p>She hesitates a beat, trying to figure out her words. “You know how there’s that belief where if you hold two mirrors up to one another, they create a portal for something to pass through?” She waits until he gives a nod before continuing. “It was like that. We had an item that created the first mirror, and then we simply held up a second. Hypothetically speaking.” </p><p>Jon thinks about the box that Sasha gave him (<em>this will let you speak to Martin</em>) and thinks about the mirrors in the dreamlike room of the masquerade. “Until it wasn’t hypothetical and you could pass through it.” </p><p>“That’s magic for you!” </p><p>He grunts and she gives another laugh. “Even here, experiencing all of this, I have a hard time really believing any of it.” </p><p>She tilts her head and looks up at him. “Is that because you see it and your brain tells you it doesn’t make sense, or because you <em>feel</em> like it shouldn’t work?” </p><p>When he doesn’t respond right away, Georgie pats his knee and returns to leaning against him to stare into the fire. “Just think about it,” she says with a yawn. </p><p>So Jon closes his eyes and spends the last few hours until dawn picking apart the pieces of this place, and how to make sense of any of them.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door to his room, which Martin always locks even if this is a place filled with magic, is kicked open in the most mundane way possible. </p><p>He jerks awake and upright at the sudden burst of sound, blinking owlishly into the darkness of his room as he tries to find his glasses. “<span class="pwa-mark decorator">Whossere</span>?” he asks, trying to sound more awake than he actually is. </p><p>The figure steps through a beam of moonlight, and Martin still can’t make out details without his glasses, but their eyes reflect back the light like a wolf’s. </p><p>His fingers curl around his glasses and he barely has the time to shove them onto his face before Trevor roughly grabs his arm and hauls him out of bed. “What’s going on?” he asks, voice shaking as his feet stumble over the stone floor. “Is something wrong?” </p><p>“You’re coming with me,” Trevor snarls, and gives a powerful tug. </p><p>Not used to being pulled around by anyone, Martin struggles and fails to regain his footing. “Where is Gerry?” </p><p>There is another snarl, this one far more wolf-like than the first. “<em>His Majesty</em> will not be coming.” </p><p>Martin’s bare feet slap against the stone floor. He hates that he’s too shocked to actually do anything — he should fight back, call of help, <em>anything</em>. But he is practically dragged along, and he knows that this man could do far worse to him in the time it would take for Martin to even try and retaliate. </p><p>Or maybe… Maybe this is because of the trick that he pulled at the masquerade. Gerry had been so angry after that, and he hasn’t seen the other man since their argument. </p><p>Is he tired of playing the benevolent host, now that Georgie isn’t around? He no longer has to pretend, so it’s down to the dungeons. Maybe that Sasha person that Jon spoke of is a time traveler, or can see into the future, and they’ll wind up in a cell next to each other in the end. </p><p>A strained, panicked laugh starts to work its way out of his mouth, and Trevor gives his arm a violent shake, which of course only causes Martin to giggle harder. </p><p>“Knock that off.” </p><p>“I’m—I’m sorry. I can’t help it!” His mind reels. He’s fifteen again, the terror setting up the mental blockades to keep himself from processing it. Bullies are the same, at any age, in any reality.</p><p>Trevor turns a corner into a hall that Martin has never explored, and they start to descend a twisting stone staircase. </p><p><em>Down into the dungeon!</em> he thinks and tries not to spiral further. The laughter bubbles in his throat, lodged there, uncertain there to go. </p><p>His feet are cold on the stone. He wish he had the chance to put on slippers, or a pair of socks. </p><p>There’s more footsteps echoing back up towards them, and Trevor halts to allow Julia to pass. </p><p>She drags someone along with her, a woman with long hair and wide, terrified eyes that Martin can see himself in. She shoots him a confused look as they pass, but then they’re gone and Trevor resumes the descent. </p><p>They reach the bottom of the flight of stairs, and there is only one door set into the stone wall. Trevor turns a series of knobs, and it swings open on silent hinges to allow them entry. </p><p>The room within is dimly lit, and Martin blinks several times and has to shake his head to clear the jumbled thoughts that have piled up in the frantic dash from his room to this secret basement. </p><p>The room is empty save for two chairs, one of which is occupied, and a <em>tremendously </em>thick atmosphere. It feels like just before a thunderstorm, the energy racing around, looking for a place to go. </p><p>A woman is standing off to the side, hip cocked at an angle that makes her look incredibly bored, and an expression of indifference. “And you think this will work?” </p><p>Trevor grunts as he shoves Martin ahead of him into the room, and let’s the door slam shut behind them. “The king seems to think so.” </p><p>“Well, <em>the king</em> has had a great many thoughts in his day that haven’t gone well for us,” the bored woman says. </p><p>“What’s going on here?” Martin tries again as Trevor forces him down into the other chair. </p><p>He finds himself looking at an older woman, her grey hair pulled back into a dilapidated bun on the top of her head, and her lips pinched like she has been sucking on a lemon for several years. She gives him a cursory look, but her expression reveals nothing. </p><p>The standing woman moves to lean in between them, studying Martin’s face from several different angles. Then her eyes light up with another expression Martin knows from bullies, and she grins with too-sharp teeth. </p><p>It’s only then that he notices that she has more than one pair of eyes. </p><p>“Oh this is the other one,” she hums, delighted. “I didn’t realize he was just wandering around so carefree.” </p><p>“The king likes to do things correctly,” the older woman says, lifting her gaze from Martin to pierce the other woman with her intense silver eyes. </p><p>“If only he realized how much of a difference this one could make, though!” the spider-eyed woman chimes as she strides around behind the chair. </p><p>Her hands are small but sharp and strong when they clamp down on his shoulders. “Now, Gertrude,” she says to the older woman. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?” </p><p>Gertrude looks like she would much rather do <em>literally anything else</em>, but then her glare focuses on Martin, and he begins to lose track of everything after that. </p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rest of the night passes, thankfully, without incident, but Jon still has an impossible time trying to get back to sleep. His mind keeps going back to Martin — <em>I’m alright. Whatever you heard about me, it’s not true. None of this is true, alright?</em> — to his conversation with the Goblin King — <em>I would rearrange the stars for you, Jon, for both of you. But I just ask that you let me</em> — trying to pick the meaning of them apart, to figure out what is true and what isn’t. </p><p>Georgie falls asleep at some point, slumped over to use his shoulder as a pillow, and he has no idea how she can be comfortable like that. </p><p>And he misses Martin terribly. They’ll be together again soon, though. He just has to keep that belief held close and held tight. </p><p><em>Trust what you feel</em>, Georgie said. </p><p>He feels terrified, but the determination is stronger. </p><p>The camp slowly wakes the rest of the way, and Georgie heads back to Melanie. Sasha makes no indication that she even heard his conversation with the Goblin King (if that had even been her? Can’t trust what he sees, can only trust what he feels, and he remembers the way the conflict had warred in his gut at the woman with too many eyes that had the right number when she smiled at him in the hallway — can’t trust what he sees, her with two eyes and a normal smile, can only trust what he feels, the revulsion that comes with a deep-rooted hatred of spiders).</p><p>What does he see when he looks at Sasha? Someone normal. Someone who doesn’t <em>always</em> act like she’s just escaped from a year imprisoned in the Goblin King’s castle. Someone who must have meant something to Tim at one point, but forgot, or decided that she didn’t want to pick up where they left off. </p><p>Martin would make up a story for them that would end in a happier reunion. Where the girl who came back couldn’t forgive her knight for not saving her, or perhaps… </p><p>(What does he <em>feel</em> when he looks at Sasha? Something not quite right. Something uneasy in that grin and the memory of cold hands where they had been warm when they ran through the forest.) </p><p>(Jon feels like there is something off, a little uncanny valley, and so he clings to that instead. That is the hook on which her story lies.) </p><p>If Georgie knows something more about Sasha, she doesn’t let on. Jon doesn’t know how to ask for more details, so instead he does the one thing that has always been the hardest for him to do and he trusts his gut. </p><p>Daisy comes up to him as he’s eating a peach, given to him by Basira with the apology that they haven’t restocked after the Corruption attack. “Are you ready?” the wolf asks, and Jon gives a half-hearted shrug as he finishes off the last of the fruit and tosses the pit at the fire. </p><p>“As I’ll ever be.” </p><p>“You’ll have us with you.” Daisy gives a nod of her head, and Jon realizes then that the others are also packing up and getting ready to leave. </p><p>Basira is speaking to someone that Jon recognizes from around the camp but otherwise doesn’t know the name to. Melanie looks like she’s at war with the urge to get the hell away from the castle but also stick with Georgie, who gives Jon a reassuring grin and nod of her head. </p><p>Tim stands awkwardly a few paces away from Jon, and also gives him a nod when their eyes meet. </p><p>Helen is missing, but Jon hadn’t seen her when he came through her door from the twisted version of his flat. She’ll join if she wants, he figures. </p><p>“I didn’t think anyone else was interested,” he eventually says. </p><p>“Well, we figured we might as well take the opportunity to infiltrate the city,” Tim says, coming over to stand with Jon and Daisy. He seems to be doing a tremendous job of not looking back at Sasha. “You’ll serve as a decent distraction, and we have the former captain of the king’s guard on our side now.” </p><p>Daisy growls something about “not being on anyone’s <em>side</em>,” while Jon wonders just what kind of distraction he’s meant to be. </p><p>But then the wolf’s ears perk up before immediately flattening back against her head, and she moves to stand before Tim and Jon. “Everyone, be on your guard,” she calls, and Tim’s hand drops to the hilt of his sword. </p><p>“What is it?” Basira joins them as well, her blade already drawn and held at the ready. “More Corruption?” </p><p>“No…” Daisy’s hackles rise, and the growl low and deep in her throat rises like distant thunder. “Julia Montauk.” </p><p>Jon wishes that he has something to defend himself with, and stands there helplessly behind Daisy, Tim, and Basira as they form a protective barrier. </p><p>He glances over his shoulder, and sees Melanie with her knife at the ready and a look of absolute murder painted over her face as she has an arm thrown out to stop Georgie from moving. </p><p>On the other side of the camp, Sasha — with her blank look, like she doesn’t expect anyone to be studying her, like she expects everyone’s focus to be on the approaching threat. </p><p>She must feel Jon’s gaze, because as her dark eyes shift to meet his, the idea of an expression of terror and uncertainty settles in across her features. A change so subtle that if Jon hadn’t been watching her suspiciously the whole time, he wouldn’t have noticed it. </p><p>(Something <em>feels</em> off.) </p><p>Daisy’s growl turns into an outright snarl as she says, “Stay where you are, Julia!”</p><p>“Peace, Captain!” the other woman calls, though Jon is unable to see her. “I have an offer for your friends.” </p><p>Basira gives a nod. </p><p>“Slowly then, hands where we can see them.” </p><p>There are cautious footsteps, and a distant mutter of conversation. Then there is a collective inhale from Basira and Tim at whatever they see, and Tim twists around to stare at Sasha. </p><p>The uncertainty on her expression increases, eyes roving Tim’s face as if trying to figure out just what he’s surprised by. </p><p>So Jon steps forward to look, and freezes in his spot. </p><p>Julia drags Sasha along by the arm, not yet close enough to see the confusion over everyone’s faces. </p><p>Jon looks back, then forward again, between the two Sashas. </p><p>(That something, that feeling, begins to solidify.)</p><p>“Stay where you are!” Basira shouts. “What is the meaning of this?” The question feels directed to the camp at large, at whoever has an idea of how to interpret what is happening. </p><p>There is a sound that might be a muttered swear, and then Melanie laughs. “Oh,” she says, sheathing her knife. “Oh, this is <em>great</em>.” </p><p><em>She knew</em>, Jon realizes, remembering how uncomfortable she looked when he was transported to Melanie and Sasha. This whole time, she knew that there was something wrong about the Sasha that traveled with them. </p><p>The pieces start to fall together.</p><p>Julia does as she’s instructed and stands her ground — gripping the struggling Sasha by the forearm. “I’ve come to offer you a trade,” she says. </p><p>“Don’t listen to her!” Sasha shouts, the one in Julia’s grasp, and <em>that’s</em> when the Sasha in the camp realizes that is happening. </p><p>Her entire body stiffens at the sound of her voice, eyes widening in what might be horror before narrowing in frustration. She stalks forward, an expression of fury boiling just beneath the surface as she pushes her way past the others trying to figure out why there are two Sashas. “You <em>imbecile</em>!” she shrieks. </p><p>Julia jerks in surprise, looking wildly between the Sasha in her arms and the one advancing on her. “Wait… What?” </p><p>As Sasha approaches, her shape begins to change — the edges of her stretching and shifting, like a reflection emerging from between two mirrors. The same, but different. Off, in a subtle way. Her voice cracks and scratches, is someone else’s and then multiple before settling back into the approximation of the one she had been using. “Are your goals really that short-sighted, Hunter?” </p><p>In the camp, Daisy gives a low growl but doesn’t advance. </p><p>“Did you really not think to talk to anyone else before going along with this plan?” </p><p>The Sasha in Julia’s grip continues to struggle, but doesn’t seem all that surprised to see a twisted duplicate of herself coming towards them. There is, in fact, more of an <em>I warned you</em> expression on her face. </p><p>“You removed her!” The wrong Sasha points at the other one, though she continues to yell at Julia. “You are so wrapped up in tearing down the king that you went and removed one of the focal points!” </p><p>“We’re not that stupid,” Julia shoots back, though there is a snort from both Sashas that would beg to differ. “We’ve replaced her.” </p><p>A soft, wretched, “Oh,” comes from Georgie, and Jon knows immediately what’s happened. “Oh, no.” </p><p><em>Martin</em>. Whatever Sasha had been used for, Martin has taken her place. </p><p>The wrong Sasha doesn’t seem to care. “If you had just waited!” She gives another shriek, and the voice twists and doubles and is a chorus. </p><p>That’s when Jon notices the cracks running through her, like the shattered mirror ceiling of the ballroom created by the Goblin King. </p><p>Julia backs away as the wrong Sasha advances, dragging her charge along with her though it seems more out of instinct than anything protective. </p><p>“If you had just <em>waited—</em>” she repeats, and swings wildly with one hand, fingers hooked and clawed and shifting as they move.</p><p>But the threat and the blow don’t land. </p><p>The mirror fragments start to <span class="pwa-mark decorator">unspool</span>, falling and drifting away so that the attack comes just shy of striking Julia or the other Sasha. </p><p>The mouth of the thing that was Sasha hangs open, and a horrible wail echoes through the camp. The pieces of her continue to drop and crack and shatter, and she takes shuddering step after shuddering step forward. Legs coming apart, arms dissolving, until she collapses onto the ground. </p><p>The scream is muffled against the dirt. Jon can barely make out the writhing form before it finally lies still and the sound of her cry is carried away on the breeze. </p><p>There is a beat where everyone is left standing there in shock. </p><p>And then the remaining Sasha elbows Julia in the solar plexus and scrambles away as Daisy lunges forward. </p><p>Tim reacts next, running towards Sasha as she stumbles and catches his hand before she can fall. </p><p>Julia gives a yelp, then howls as her wolf form darts away — enough of a head-start that Daisy lets her go without pursuing too far. </p><p>“What… the fuck?” Basira asks, still gripping her sword, frozen and uncertain. </p><p>“The Hunters wanted to use me as a bartering chip,” Sasha says as Tim leads her back to where everyone is standing. “Hello Basira. I’m sorry about what happened.”</p><p>“There was…” Basira points in the direction of the thing that had been Sasha, though seems remarkably unwilling to go and investigate further. “And then you…” She looks to Jon, and he just shakes his head. </p><p>There’s a pause, and Tim’s arm tightens around Sasha as he takes a breath to say something. But his voice peters out as she lifts a hand to touch his cheek and gives him a soft smile. </p><p>“Soon,” she promises. “We have more important things to do right now.” </p><p>So this is the piece that was missing in Sasha and Tim’s story. </p><p>Jon clears his throat. “What is happening to Martin?” </p><p>She reaches out and this time he doesn’t feel the urge to jerk away from her touch. She is a different person than the one they traveled with before, though she looks and sounds exactly the same. “I’ll explain on the way. We should head to the city as quickly as we can.” </p><p>He refuses to move as the others start to turn away. “Is he in any danger?” </p><p>Sasha considers this, and for a horrifying second he wonders if she’s thinking how to try to break it to him that Martin is a doomed man and that the speed will only make the difference on how much is left of him to save. </p><p>But then she says, “No. Not if he can convince the king to do the right thing.” </p><p>Heart doing all sorts of funny dances and awkward turns in his chest, Jon nods and takes a deep breath. “If there’s one thing Martin is good at,” he says, “it’s getting people to believe in the impossible.” </p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin has never actually considered what it would feel like to be run through a pasta machine, but he is pretty certain that it would feel something like <em>this</em>. </p><p>The bits and bobs of him are pulled into individual components. Flatted and spread thin over a hard sheet of metal, and then spiraled through a tiny sieve that breaks him down further. </p><p>It doesn’t hurt, not in a whole way. His brain tells him it should hurt, but his body feels fine, and instead all he actually feels is something like strands of hair caught on his fingers (like when Jon starts to stress so much his hair begins to fall out), or tiny little spider legs up and down his arms (like when he was young and would play with the bugs out back of the house — <em>no, no don’t think of that, don’t think of then, keep thinking of Jon</em>). </p><p>The woman with the spider eyes, whose name is Annabelle, has moved from her spot behind him and prances around the room, humming as she goes. She lifts a delicate finger and plucks at seemingly nothing, and then Martin feels it reverberate through him and out of him and then ping rapidly between him and Gertrude. </p><p>And with each little string, Martin watches as things change. </p><p>A piece here moved there, out of the way in a crucial moment. </p><p>The replacement figure crushed. </p><p>The silver woodlice that he rolled around in his palm at the map table spreading through the forest — through the city — through the labyrinth. </p><p>Fire and flesh and writhing darkness. </p><p>A piece here, a person there. </p><p>And Annabelle orchestrates it all on her invisible strings and Martin can only sit and watch and feel the bits and bobs of him stretch and thin and separates into more and more strings. </p><p>“Did you think that it would go this way?” Gertrude asks suddenly. </p><p>Annabelle ignores her, or doesn’t hear her. Martin can’t actually tell because it feels like there are layers upon layers of overlapping realities and the spider lady moves through all of them with her delicate and intricate steps. </p><p>So Martin answers, “Not really.” </p><p>“It always takes me a long time to figure out the new minds when they are put in,” she continues. “Sasha was a dear girl, very eager to be useful, but things didn’t work out properly.” </p><p>Martin reaches out for the strings that illuminate when she speaks, and he sees Georgie in this room, shaking the woman with the long hair that Martin had passed on the way up. He sees Trevor and Julia and the aftermath of what they did to Melanie. He sees the Goblin King, sitting on his throne, face in his hands, unable to do anything. </p><p>Because the pieces weren’t right, and a patch isn’t a fix. </p><p>“Who was here before her?” he asks, and even as the question leaves his mouth he knows the answer. </p><p>A woman, Gertrude’s age perhaps, whip thin and filled with anger and chaos. Wires like barbs that connect her to Gerry, hooked into his soul and so unwilling to come out that when she died, she nearly broke the whole damn thing. </p><p>“His mother,” Gertrude says. “The Queen, may she rot.” </p><p>“Why me?” Martin tries to wriggle in his seat, to get more comfortable or to relieve the pinched tendon in the back of his right leg or just know he has some sort of agency left. </p><p>It doesn’t work. </p><p>“You fell for Gerry, didn’t you?” </p><p>“Well, I—” </p><p>“It’s no use lying,” Gertrude says, and that lemon-pucker frown turns to a smirk and Martin knows what she’s seeing because he can see it too and, alright, maybe his ears go incredibly scarlet at that. “If you haven’t realized by now, things aren’t secrets around here. This is how Gerry can do what he does.” </p><p>“These strings?” </p><p>“Us. The strings are new.” Her eyes flick momentarily to Annabelle, who continues her humming and her work. </p><p>Martin thinks for a moment. Then he thinks about Jon, and that’s enough for the appropriate strings to become highlighted and he reaches for them to see his husband and the motley crew he has gathered as they approach the city. <em>The Hero</em>, Martin thinks fondly, and tucks those aside — out of the way, just removed enough that their presence isn’t obvious. “What is it that Gerry was so afraid of happening?”</p><p>Gertrude has to think about this, sorting through possibilities and their outcomes, ones created and discarded or rewritten until they’re spread out in an array like playing cards and the dealer is asking him to pick one. “The mirror collapsing,” she finally says. </p><p>He follows this line of thought, this outcome, sees what it means in all the different versions of it. The way they collapse and crumble and leave the pieces there to be used anew. “That’s just a hard reset,” he comments. “Turning the computer off and on again.” </p><p>With a snort, Gertrude says, “I have no idea what you mean, so I hate that I understand it because you understand it.” </p><p>“Sorry.” A pause, then, “Why isn’t Annabelle stopping us from talking?” </p><p>“I’ve been at this game a lot longer than she has,” Gertrude remarks dryly. “She might be a master manipulator, but I am the All-Seeing. This is my domain, and she’s intruding.” </p><p>Martin feels the strings of him being plucked, strummed, an instrument used to call someone down. </p><p>He follows the lines, the threads, feels them wrap around Gerry and pull. And, terrified, he tries to push back. </p><p>Gertrude reaches and steadies him without moving from her chair. “Do you want to know <em>why</em> Annabelle is very bad at this job?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Because she can’t see things that are right in front of her face.” </p><p>“I don’t—” Martin stops, but then Gertrude’s fingers, bony and icy and way too strong for a woman her age, grasp the sides of his face and force him to meet her eyes. </p><p>“You’re not a mirror, like Sasha was,” she tells him, and he goes still beneath the thrum of her voice. “You’re a magnifying glass, and Annabelle is an insect.” </p><p>Martin wants to tell her that, first of all, spiders are arachnids not insects, and that secondly, he was never the type of child to try and burn ants with a convex lens. He was the child that the others pinned down to grill.</p><p>He knew the intensity of the sun in those moments, when it was focused and pointed in his direction. </p><p>And he always thought it was <em>metaphorically speaking</em> that he understood, but now, as Gertrude grips his face and refuses to let him go as the pieces of him writhe beneath the intensity of her glare, he begins to realize how literal that sensation might have been. </p><p>It starts in his glasses, the metal super-heating until he yelps aloud and jerks back in his chair, pulling the frames free and watching (in the strange detached way the strings let him watch everything, because physically, he can’t look away from Gertrude), mournfully, as one lens cracks on the stone floor. </p><p>But the fire has caught in his chest, and he can feel the pieces of him alight, metaphorically, he hopes, because he can’t see these actual pieces. His brain telling him that it should hurt while his body confirms that it doesn’t. </p><p>No synapses firing in a panic, no smoke as his skin starts to smolder. </p><p>Instead, he watches, floating and detached, as Annabelle reaches back towards him without looking. How she takes the thread that she wants and ties it into the pattern that she’s making, not even realizing the flame licking at the end of it. </p><p>When she reaches for the next thread, it catches. </p><p>And the next, and another, spreading out so the invisible web that Martin had not been able to see, not really, becomes visible. The lines of it thin trails of flame as Annabelle finally realizes what is happening. </p><p>“No!” she cries, swatting at it uselessly with one hand. She snatches it away, and Martin can sense the pain flaring through her because she is connected to him. The threads are tied between her and him and Gertrude and back again until they go out into the world — the pieces of him connected to Gerry and to Jon, the pieces of Gertrude that have long since been cast over the land since Sasha’s time in this chair, since Mary’s (<em>long may she rot</em>, Gertrude says smugly). “What have you done?!” </p><p>“Nothing, dear,” Gertrude says calmly as she blinks and leans back in her chair. </p><p>Martin sags beneath the sudden weight of gravity, not realizing how exhausted he feels. But the connection is gone. </p><p>And then the door bursts open and Gerry stands in the doorway, chest heaving and fear in his eyes as he finds Martin. </p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are two things happening, and Gerry doesn’t know which to process first. </p><p>One: Martin is in the chair where Sasha had sat, which means things are going incredibly wrong, and that things will collapse — or he will lose Martin. </p><p>Two: There is a woman catching fire in his basement. That woman is Annabelle Cane, and the first thing he finally wraps his brain around to process is, “Why is Annabelle Cane in my basement?” </p><p>She thrashes against the spiderweb that she has strung up, and more and more of the fire jumps from it to her, to the walls that are stone and shouldn’t catch, but they do. </p><p>Gerry tears his eyes away from her as the smoke starts to flood the room with far more speed than it has any right to. He leaps across the distance, around Gertrude’s chair, and catches Martin up in his arms. </p><p>“She’s—” Martin babbles, limp and unable to look away. “She’s on fire—” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“I did that—” </p><p>“No, she did that to herself.” He hauls Martin to his feet, and starts to tug him towards the stairs. “We have to go.” </p><p>“What—” Martin stops, digs his heels in, and refuses to move. “Gertrude!” </p><p>The old woman has one elbow hooked over the back of her chair, and she watches the remains of the web crumble and spark in bits of ash and flame. “Oh, I an extremely content to watch this play out.” </p><p>Gerry tries to heave a sigh, but the smoke fills his lungs instead and it comes out as a hacking cough. “Get up, you old bitty. Come on.” </p><p>“I would like to make sure this all goes properly,” she comments, then twists in her chair to look at the both of them. “You’ll never make it out on foot. She was too deep into the magic. It’s catching all over. </p><p>He swears and coughs again. </p><p>At his side, Martin ducks away and out of sight for a moment as a cloud of smoke washes over them. </p><p>“What are you doing!” </p><p>“My glasses—ah. Good. Here they are.” There is a flash of fire off the lenses and then Martin is back. “What can we do?” </p><p>Gertrude holds her hand out towards Gerry, and he takes it without even thinking. Her grip is like iron, and she yanks him a step closer — towards the heart of the blaze. </p><p>He doesn’t have to ask to know that she won’t leave with them, and it makes his heart ache. Despite everything, she is still a piece of this castle and his history. </p><p>“Don’t even think about mourning for me,” she says, catching that look in his eye. “Honestly, you should have done this a long time ago.” </p><p>“Gertrude—” </p><p>“I think I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve, Your Majesty,” she says, and that too-clever grin she always got when talking to his mother about their plans settles into place. “Sasha is nearby. She and I are still connected, or at least will be for a bit longer.” </p><p>“You’re…” <em>Insane</em> is what he wants to say. <em>Incredible</em> also works. </p><p>But she just releases his wrist and pats his cheek in a way that feels more like a slap than anything. “Get out of here, and make sure you set it right.” </p><p>Martin is coughing too hard to stay upright, his breath wheezing in his lungs as he pulls his shirt up over his nose. Gerry needs to get them out of there, and he can’t stop long enough to ask for permission. </p><p>So he wraps his arm around Martin’s waist and holds out his hand to Gertrude and says, “Thanks.” </p><p>“Fuck off,” she says, not incredibly unkindly, and that’s the last thing he hears from her. </p><p>It is like stepping through liquid, out of smoke into water into fresh air. </p><p>That is how Gerry has always thought of it. </p><p>Except that this time, he feels the glass shatter and break behind him, and knows that the way back is gone. </p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The castle is on fire. </p><p>Jon stands at the gates, which are thrown open, as if inviting them in, and stares. </p><p>The castle is on fire, and it’s too late. They’re too late. </p><p>The city was deceptively empty as they jogged through it. Every warning Daisy gave to look out for was absent. They were halfway through one of the twisting side-streets, as much a labyrinth as the compound outside the city was, before Daisy noticed the smoke. </p><p>Sasha, still struggling just like her copy was, did her best to explain what was happening, though she had no answer for why the city was empty. The plan of the Hunters, of Annabelle. The Desolation and the Corruption and the want to tear down the Goblin King even if it meant tearing down the city and the labyrinth along with it. </p><p>They would build a new empire from its corpse. </p><p>But she has no answer when they see the flames rising from the castle, except a look of sorrow and mourning as she watches. “This…” she starts, as if to reassure Jon, but he takes a few paces forward before his sneakers hit the bottom stair leading up to the castle proper. “Hold on…” </p><p>“Hold <em>on</em>?” he asks, whipping around to glare at her. “I can’t hold on, I have to— I have to…!” </p><p>He doesn’t know. </p><p>He doesn’t know what he can do, or has to do, or should do. </p><p>So he doesn’t do anything. </p><p>Behind him, there is a sound like an upside down cup being pulled free from the sink. A sucking sort of noise followed by a faint <em>pop</em> of water rushing to fill the air pocket, and then, “Oh—” </p><p>Whatever else was supposed to be said is cut off by lung-wrenching coughs. </p><p>Jon practically trips over his own feet as he spins around and sprints up the stairs. His body moving before his brain, his brain unhelpfully saying, <em>You should have grabbed his inhaler</em>, before his arms are around Martin. </p><p>Martin gives a soft <em>oof</em> of surprise before he croaks out, “Jon!” </p><p>“I thought—” Jon starts, but can’t get the words out around the way his throat closes up and his heart heaves uncertainly. <em>Should have brought your medication</em>, he chides in the same tone that laments over the absence of Martin’s inhaler, and then he starts laughing. </p><p>Or crying, he’s not too sure which. </p><p>It’s a strange combination of both, but then he’s coughing because he can’t breathe and Martin smells like smoke and there is so much ash falling down over their heads, but he doesn’t care. </p><p>He doesn’t care because this is real and this is Martin, in his arms, where he belongs. </p><p>“I knew you’d save me,” Martin says, pulling him in close and leaving a kiss to the top of his head. “See, I knew you would. Never doubted you for a moment.” </p><p>“You always had more faith in me,” Jon murmurs into his chest. </p><p>The moment is interrupted by a cough — not one from Jon or Martin as they struggle with various smoke-related issues. But a polite clearing of the throat. </p><p>Jon’s shoulders tense, and he pulls back to look at the Goblin King standing there beside them. </p><p>“Seems you made it after all, like you said you would,” the Goblin King says awkwardly. </p><p>“Seems things are falling down despite you trying to keep us apart,” Jon replies dryly, ignoring the squeeze Martin gives his waist in warning. “How’d that work out for you?” </p><p>Gerry looks absolutely defeated, and alright, maybe Jon does regret those words. “About as well as can be expected, apparently.” He lifts a hand to his face and scrubs at the soot — only causing it to smear across his cheek. When he inhales, it catches on something, some emotion that he doesn’t show on his face, and he lets it out on a sigh. </p><p>“Oh good,” comes Sasha’s voice from behind them. “It worked!” </p><p>The three of them turn to look at her where she stands at the bottom of the stairs, half supported by Tim as she smiles. </p><p>She catches the king’s eye and does a wobbly little curtsey. “Your Majesty.” </p><p>“Sasha.” </p><p>“Sorry for my sudden departure. Would have tried to prepare better, but. Well…” She makes a vague sort of motion with her hand. </p><p>Gerry makes one of his own. “You did as well as you could, given the circumstances.” He glances back at his castle. “Did you know what would happen?” </p><p>She laughs. “Seeing the future was never my strong suit. But… We kept one last little reserve, just in case.” </p><p>“Enough to teleport me out, should it be required.” </p><p>She curtseys again. “I wish we could have done more.” </p><p>“Hi, hello, yeah,” Tim cuts in with a wave of his hand. “Is anyone going to explain what’s going on? Like <em>why</em> we’re not trying to cut off his head right now?” </p><p>Sasha glares at him and pinches him in the side, resulting in a little yelp of pain as he rubs the spot. </p><p>Gerry lifts a hand to his throat, but doesn’t say anything. </p><p>Daisy and Basira stand just to the side of Sasha and Tim, having a soft, muttered conversation that Jon can’t hear. Georgie and Melanie are also finally approaching, Melanie having decided to take as slow a pace as she could get away with and dragging her feet the entire way. </p><p>Her face is already in a pinched frown, and Georgie whispers into her ear before pulling away to stand at the base of the stairs. </p><p>Georgie’s expression brightens considerably when she’s able to make out the details. “Martin!” </p><p>“Hullo, Georgie. See you got Melanie back.” </p><p>“See you got Jon back.” She grins and jogs up the stairs to join them. “Did you do that?” she asks, and nods in the direction of the castle. </p><p>“Sort of,” Martin says glumly as Gerry says, “No.” </p><p>The two of them exchange not-quite glares over the top of Jon’s head. </p><p>“It was Annabelle’s fault. I would imagine my guards are in on it, too.” Gerry rakes a hand through his hair, shaking ash loose from the long dark strands and frowning. “I need to…” he starts, and Jon understands that unmoored tone. “I need to see what’s left.” </p><p>He turns to start the arduous trek back to the castle — across the sprawling courtyard that remains untouched by the fire save for the ash raining down. </p><p>Martin reaches out and grabs onto his wrist. “Stay with us,” he says, and his fingers twine between Gerry’s to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We can fix it together.”</p><p>“I can’t—” the Goblin King starts, rubbing his thumb across his forehead. “I can still fix this. This shouldn’t have to be your problem.” </p><p>Jon snorts and rolls his eyes as Martin says, “Okay, now listen here. If you only just <em>told me</em>, this wouldn’t have been such a mess!” </p><p>“You don’t know that.” </p><p>“I do, in fact, know that. I sat in that chair. I saw the possibilities.” Martin gives Gerry’s hand a tug, reeling him in back the steps he tried to retreat. “Why are you so afraid of giving me the chance?” </p><p>Gerry fixes him with a <em>look</em>, as if begging Martin to understand without having to say anything. And when that doesn’t work, he looks to Jon next. </p><p>“Remember what I said about the puppy dog eyes?” Jon grumbles, but the mock frustration doesn’t last when Martin presses a kiss against his temple. </p><p>“I need to send you home,” Gerry tries instead. “You as well, Georgie. I’ve… kept you here far longer than I should have.” </p><p>“I probably don’t even have a flat anymore,” Georgie admits. “Besides, so long as you can give me a nice place to live, I wouldn’t mind staying.” </p><p>The Goblin King gives a loud, annoyed sigh, but before he can complain further, two discordant wolf howls echo through the courtyard, and the fire consuming the castle flares into the smoke-choked sky like a warning. </p><p>Jon feels Martin’s arm tighten around him, and sees the strain on the hand still clinging to Gerry’s. After a brief hesitation, Jon reaches out and places his hand on top of where Martin’s and Gerry’s are joined, and that seems to help ease the energy coursing through Gerry’s entire frame. </p><p>“It’s time,” the Goblin King says into the waiting silence. His voice is small, uncertain, and he doesn’t look back at either of them. “Will you help me?” </p><p>“Yes,” Martin says without hesitation. “I will.” He looks down at Jon, almost as if to belatedly ask for permission. </p><p>Jon presses up on his tiptoes and leaves a kiss on Martin’s lips. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere without me.” </p><p>“We’ll all help,” Georgie says, and nods down at the direction of the others clustered at the base of the stairs. </p><p>“I will <em>not</em>,” Melanie says, crossing her arms over her chest. </p><p>Basira inhales deeply and shakes her head with a sigh. “We all have something at stake here. If we promise to help you, you will make the effort to fix the damage done throughout the kingdom.” </p><p>“Of course,” Gerry promises, and Jon can feel his grip on Martin’s hand tighten. “You have my word.” </p><p>“Well then,” Martin says cheerfully with the tone that Jon has heard before dividing up household chores for a weekend of cleaning, “let’s get started!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The strange mismatch of people follows behind Gerry across the courtyard towards the raging inferno that was once his castle. </p><p>“How are we supposed to get inside…?” Jon asks from half a step behind him. “I’m not great with smoke at the best of times, and the fire…” </p><p>That is the big problem he hasn’t yet figured out. His magic is… well, not gone, but muted. <em>Literally on fire</em>, is perhaps one way to put it. His connection to the strings that were established has been singed and the only way to get it back is to remake everything. </p><p>Gertrude is gone, and without her to tether it, it’s all coming undone. </p><p>He forces himself to answer. “I’m… still working on that.” </p><p>“I can help,” chimes a too-cheerful voice as Helen steps out from between two topiary bushes. “If you don’t mind me butting in on that offer you extended to the others. Helping out and forgiving the want to kill you, that sort of thing.” </p><p>Basira frowns and says, “I didn’t want to <em>kill</em> him,” though Tim mumbles something close to “I did.” </p><p>Gerry knows what Helen’s idea of a short-cut would entail and he’s not too sure how much he wants to risk dragging Martin and Jon into that. “Forgiveness for you or for all of the Distortion?” </p><p>“I <em>am </em>currently the Distortion. There are as many or as few of me as need exist at the moment, and at the moment, just one of me is good.” She smiles and waggles her fingers in an exaggerated wave. “You made it out okay, Jon!” </p><p>“I did…” he says slowly. “Thank you.” </p><p>“See?” Helen bats her eyelashes, and Gerry has to lower his gaze before the swirl of color in her pupils makes him too dizzy. “I can be helpful!” </p><p>Melanie heaves a heavy sigh and tugs on Georgie’s hand. “I’m not going to be of any use in that place, and I swear if I trip because I can’t see, I’ll go spiraling seven dimensions over.” </p><p>“I also can’t be of help,” Sasha says, separating herself from Tim’s side to join the other two. “Besides, if you’re going to create a new magic weave, it would be best if I don’t get tangled up in it.” </p><p>“Please no more of the spider imagery,” Jon says and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have had way more than enough spiders to last me a lifetime.” </p><p>“Alright then!” Helen claps her hands together and looks at the remaining six. “Please hold hands, and stick together!” </p><p>Tim casts Sasha one last glance before he and Basira draw their swords. </p><p>Martin, still holding onto Jon’s hand, resumes his grip on Gerry’s and gives a confident nod. </p><p>Helen’s laugh echoes and folds and bends into something new altogether as she says, “Oh, this will be <em>fun</em>,” and before Gerry can regret his agreement to this, his center of gravity shifts and he’s standing in a stone hall that’s reminiscent of one of the ones from his castle. </p><p>Except that across the way, on a path running vertically up, he spots Tim, Basira, and Daisy stumble to catch their balance. And a moment later, Jude, Julia, and Trevor appear overhead. </p><p>“Is this a fucking <em>Escher painting</em>,” Jon grumbles, looking a little dizzy but otherwise still maintaining his grip on Martin’s hand. “Are we in a bleeding non-Euclidian space?”</p><p>Martin gives a soft <em>oh dear</em> as he looks around at the interior of the Spiral. </p><p>The halls and paths stretch and twist before them in a pattern that defies comprehension. Walkways extending out into nothing that you have no way of knowing if you’ll flip over the edge to walk along the bottom or drop off into space, a riot of colors swarming the background, archways that bend and twist in a slow and gentle curve. </p><p>“Right then,” Martin says with a nod. “Right.” </p><p>“You can close your eyes if it helps,” Gerry suggests. It’s his second time in the interior of the Spiral, the first happening after his mother thought it would be an ideal training situation for the crown prince. But passing through the small pocket dimensions that were created by Gertrude and Sasha had a similar dizzying effect. </p><p>Jon doesn’t close his eyes, and instead spends a great deal of time glaring at everything. “Is this what I was passing through each time I used one of her doors?” </p><p>“Most likely. She can condense it between those entrance and exit points.” </p><p>Martin has his eyes squeezed shut, and Gerry suddenly notices that one of the lenses on his glasses is cracked. “Right,” he repeats. “Now, Gerry, do your thing.” </p><p>Jon gives him an incredulous look. “That was your plan?” </p><p>Gerry lifts his free hand. “I can’t. I need to create a completely new structure or figure out how to separate the existing one from my castle.” </p><p>“Then create a new one.” </p><p>“This is how Martin approaches all of his world building—ah, hey!” Jon’s frown quickly dissolves into a cheeky grin as Martin gives his hand a playful tug and makes him lose his balance. “I’m right and you know it.” </p><p>Gerry watches their little interactions, marveling at the shift in both of them now that they’re together. The relief in their postures, the way they move and compensate for each other’s presence with ease. Jon’s dry humor doesn’t seem as callous with Martin there to soften the edges of it.</p><p>Overhead, he hears a lone howl, and looks up to see Trevor bounding across from one platform to another. He can tell that his two (former) guards and Jude are going to try and find their way down to him. Across the way, Tim and Basira split off in opposite directions despite Helen’s warning to stay together — but they move with surprising confidence through the shifting and twisting space. </p><p>Perhaps they’ve been in the Spiral multiple times, or they’re just incredibly reckless. Either seems likely. </p><p>“Hold on, how did the magic work previously?” Jon says suddenly, a thoughtful look on his face. “Martin, you said you were there — what was it like?” </p><p>“Uh. Confusing?” </p><p>“Helpful.” </p><p>“It was all happening very fast—” </p><p>“There has to be two points: one for it to originate from, and one to guide it,” Gerry cuts in, feeling the hands on the clock count down closer to when his structure would collapse. </p><p>“It was back and forth,” Martin adds. “It came from Gertrude and then to me and then back again. And Annabelle would take pieces of it.” </p><p>Jon rubs his hand over his arm at the mention of Annabelle’s name, but doesn’t say anything despite the thoughtful look on his face. </p><p>“Georgie described it as a house of cards.” Martin has to let go of both Jon and Gerry’s hands in order to make a shape with his fingers that doesn’t really make sense. “And when the structure was solid enough, we could take one of the cards out of play and create a gap. But Gertrude called her and Sasha two mirrors, and I think that’s how it worked before. Something from nothing, and endless in that space between them.” </p><p>“No, hold on,” Jon says, lightly smacking Martin’s elbow as the furrow in his brow gets deeper. “What about us?” </p><p>“What?” Gerry and Martin both stare down at Jon in confusion before exchanging a look of their own. “What about you?” </p><p>Jon makes a face and rolls his eyes. “Replace everyone with the three of us.” </p><p>Martin starts to nod as he catches on to Jon’s thought process. “Oh, I get it. Gerry as the source, Jon is the control, and I’m the storyteller. That was Georgie’s role if it had gone according to plan. It’s what Annabelle disrupted: rewriting the story as everyone wanted it done to try and topple your throne.” </p><p>“Well, it <em>worked—” </em></p><p>“No, it didn’t. The house of cards is still standing! She used a magnifying glass instead of a second mirror.” </p><p>Jon takes Martin’s hand and says, “Love, stop using the house of cards metaphor. He doesn’t know what it is.” </p><p>Martin pouts. “But it makes sense.” </p><p>“No it doesn’t.” </p><p>“Because you weren’t there—” </p><p>“I don’t even like magic!” </p><p>Gerry reaches out and puts his hand over theirs to get them to stop their bickering. “It’s adorable what the two of you do, and honestly I probably should have let you in on it sooner, I know that. I’m sorry. But now is not the time. I’ll regret my choices later, so I need you to speak plainly.” </p><p>Martin places his other hand on top of Gerry’s, and lifts the pile of hands so he can press a kiss to both Gerry’s and Jon’s knuckles. “You get power with two, but you get stability and control with three. And it’s about wants and intent.” </p><p>Gerry watches Martin, as he takes Gerry’s and Jon’s hands and grips them tightly. Then he looks to Jon, who is studying him with an incredibly intense stare. </p><p>He almost feels the urge to apologize, though he doesn’t know for what. Well, beyond that one thing, but Jon doesn’t actually seem to care how familiar Martin is being with him. </p><p>Okay, maybe he needs to apologize for a <em>lot</em> of things, but now is not that time for that either. </p><p><em>Wants and intents</em>. That had never really been Mary’s way of doing things, but it could be his. He wants this to work. He intends to make amends. </p><p>“If you do that,” Gerry begins slowly, bracing himself for the very real possibility that he won’t be enough — for them, for the magic, he’s not too sure, “you’ll have to stay here.” </p><p>Martin and Jon give each other a look, a silent moment passing between the two of them. They communicate via lifted eyebrows and small shrugs, and Gerry marvels at the way that they seem to know exactly what the other is thinking. </p><p>“You hated your job,” Martin says, picking up mid-conversation. </p><p>“I hated that job,” Jon agrees. “You’ll never finish your novel though.” </p><p>“I hated that project. I couldn’t write what I wanted to.” He lifts his gaze to Gerry, and holds it steady as he says, with confidence, “So let’s write a happier ending.”</p><p>Jon laughs, a content and brilliant sound, which earns him a kiss from Martin. </p><p>Gerry gulps down the lingering nerves and gives Martin’s hand a squeeze. “Alright then. Let’s do that.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>listen, i thought about trying to make this chapter make More Sense but then I gave up so either you can expect a surprise 27.5 in the future or you can write your own but as far as i'm concerned if labyrinth doesn't have to explain their magic system then i sure don't have to either</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin finds Jon at one of the balconies that looks out over the teeming courtyard. The palace had been so silent during his time here, that now to see people coming and going from the city still comes as a shock. He has no idea how Gerry must be feeling about it all, but chances are that after their departure from the Spiral, the king has been so busy with meeting after meeting with Basira and the others. </p><p>He’s barely seen Gerry over the last two days, but the space feels so much more alive already. It must be exhausting, but worth it. </p><p>“You alright?” Martin asks, giving Jon the chance to react before wrapping his arms around Jon’s waist and resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder. </p><p>“I am now,” Jon says, lingering that way for a bit longer before turning around so he can cup Martin’s face with both hands. </p><p>Martin stands still and patient beneath the study and is rewarded with a kiss when Jon is done. He tilts his head and presses another kiss to the center of Jon’s injured palm. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?” </p><p>“Not really. I look at it and I remember how much it hurt at the time, but… Gerry did a good job healing it.” He flexes his fingers, then combs them back through Martin’s hair. “You need a haircut.” </p><p>“It seems unfair that both you and Gerry get to have long hair but I don’t.” </p><p>Jon’s smile is soft and fond as he toys with the hair where it rests above his collar, and Martin bends his head with the touch. “You hate it when it gets any longer than this and you know it.” </p><p>“Maybe this time I’ll grow it out.” </p><p>“Alright, it’s a bet.” </p><p>Martin seals it with a kiss, because he can, because he’s missed Jon, because he knows he’ll lose. </p><p>With a soft, content sigh, Jon leans in against him and tucks his head beneath Martin’s chin. “You’re okay with this choice? To stay here?” </p><p>He lets his hands trace idle little patterns across the small of Jon’s back. “It’s a little late to be asking that, isn’t it?” </p><p>“We’re apparently magic now, we can do whatever we want.” </p><p>Martin thinks about the hum that now seems to exist with in the air, the little spark he gets when he touches Jon or Gerry. It sounds so corny to say <em>it’s like magic</em> when it is literally true. Still, if <em>Jon</em> is going to be fanciful about magic suddenly, then that leaves the role of the pragmatic one up to him. “I don’t think it works like that.” </p><p>Jon purses his lips and calls, “Gerry?” </p><p>There’s a beat before Gerry steps out from thin air to join the two of them on the walkway. His gaze finds Martin’s immediately, and a timid smile works its way onto his lips. Martin wonders if they interrupted him from doing important king duties, or if he’s just thankful for the excuse to get away from them. “What is it?” he asks. </p><p>“We’re magic now, so can we do whatever we want?” </p><p>Gerry’s smile drops into a contemplative frown, and he looks between Martin and Jon in an attempt to try and key in the rest of the conversation. “Within reason, I suppose, and it’s confined to our kingdom—” </p><p>“Told you,” Martin says. </p><p>“No, not really.” </p><p>Martin turns to Gerry and says, “I told you he doesn’t understand how magic works.” He can’t help the grin as Jon headbutts his chin, but loosens his grip as Jon steps back. </p><p>Gerry lifts an eyebrow, and gives a crooked little smile as he watches Jon huff. “Is there something that you want? I do believe I still owe you some rearranged cosmos.” </p><p>“That was only if I didn’t solve the labyrinth, and I think you’ll find that I did. Besides,” he says, with a little tilt of his chin, “you offered that before either of us also had magic. So it seems a little meaningless now.” </p><p>Martin knows a challenge when he sees one, and he tries to hide the amused grin as he watches the two of them. </p><p>There is a little furrow of confusion in Gerry’s brow, and he turns to Martin for assistance. </p><p>He only holds up his hands to stay out of it. “This for you to figure out on your own.” </p><p>“Unfair,” Gerry huffs. He takes Jon’s hand in his and bows low over it to press his lips to the knuckles. “You have bested my labyrinth, and you have been reunited with the husband I kept from you. You’ll forgive me, I hope, for the deception?” </p><p>“My husband bears you no ill-will for your actions, so I will relieve you of my grudge,” Jon answers with equal flair, and Martin suddenly remembers the fact that Jon did admit to having done drama in college. “But now we are here, balancing your kingdom with you.” </p><p>Jon pauses, and thinks for a moment, and Martin can see the hesitation in Gerry’s expression the longer he takes. “Wait a moment,” Jon says suddenly, tone of voice indicating that he is definitely doing this on purpose. “What was it that you just said? <em>It’s confined to our kingdom</em>?” </p><p>Martin had noticed, but didn’t call attention to it. He hadn’t been sure if it was a slip or a 'royal we’ sort of deal. </p><p>Gerry, still bowed low over Jon’s hand, blushes when the phrase is brought up. “I thought it only fair, seeing as you each carry a third of the responsibility of the magic that keeps it running.” </p><p>There is a smirk playing at the corners of Jon’s lips now. “I think given that, there is a gift you can still give me. Give <em>us</em>,” he amends, casting a teasing glance at Martin. </p><p>“Anything pales in comparison to what I have already offered you. Name it, and it’s yours.” </p><p>Jon leans back against the wall as suavely as he can manage with one hand still in Gerry’s grip while Martin does his best not to give away the act by laughing. “During the masquerade, when we danced, I do believe you were about to kiss me. Before I rejected your offer to not solve the labyrinth in return for cosmos shifting.” </p><p>Gerry’s eyes go wide, and any of his remaining calm demeanor quickly slips away as he looks frantically between Jon and Martin. The blush only grows darker.</p><p>“<em>And</em>,” Jon continues, relentless, “I do believe you’ve already kissed my husband, so I find it incredibly unfair that I have been left out.” </p><p>Martin is trying very hard to not make a sound, but the faintest snort of laughter does manage to make its way past his defenses. </p><p>Jon nudges him.</p><p>“Well,” Gerry finally manages, incredibly flustered. “If that’s what the gentleman requests—”</p><p>“It is.” </p><p>“Then I will be happy to oblige.” He straightens his posture and uses his grip on Jon’s hand to draw him in close. His dark gaze flickers once again to Martin, as if to check this is okay — or perhaps to check that Martin is watching — before he leans in and kisses Jon. </p><p>It’s a soft kiss, far more gentle than the one that Martin and Gerry shared. It is unhurried and, most importantly, it is such a simple thing. </p><p>Perhaps honesty can be easy, after all.</p><p>Not wanting to be left out any longer, Martin steps in to wrap one arm around Jon and receives a kiss on either cheek from the two men. </p><p>“To answer your question, Jon,” Martin says, as Jon’s fingers return to his hair and he looks up at Martin with a peaceful and content smile. “Yes, I am okay with this choice.” </p><p>The Goblin King and the Hero both get to have a happy ending, and Martin gets to enjoy it with them. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey kaite i know you requested teacher!au for your birthday and i swear i had notes written up for it and everything but then brain didn't want to write it, so I figured "why not just gift this entire AU to her instead" SURPRISE!! THANKS FOR BEING MY SOUNDING BOARD, AND FOR TALKING ABOUT GERRY IN TIGHT PANTS WITH ME!!! </p><p>THANK YOU EVERYONE who has come to read and enjoy it and holler your theories into the comments and my DMs. I'm very glad that Gerry in tight pants could unite all of us like this. </p><p>come holler at me over on <a href="https://twitter.com/littleladymab">twitter</a> and <a href="https://littleladymab.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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